


Feeling His Way Through the Dark

by Binx0r



Series: After Baskerville [1]
Category: Ancient Magus Bride, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adding trigger warnings as they come up, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Eventual Johnlock, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, I saw the werewolf chained in book one of the manga and immediately thought werejohn, I'll put them up on the chapter they're in, Kidnapping, M/M, No Smut, Shifter AU, Slavery, Slow Burn, VERY loosely based on Ancient Magus Bride lore, Were-Creatures, and here we are, and s3 to a lesser extent, assumes canon until the middle of s2 and then FLIES OFF INTO THE ATMOSPHERE, but also don't be afraid to tell me what's wrong, fuck s4 in particular, i'm not crying you're crying, it did not, just maybe don't be a douche about it thanks, mentioned animal abuse, my apologies, my first fic in like 15 years please be kind, reichenbach doesn't happen, sorry but next one will have some, these idiots honestly, threatened noncon, were!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 104,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binx0r/pseuds/Binx0r
Summary: The first time Sherlock saw John shift was in Baskerville Research Facility. He had locked him in to test a theory, and instead of causing a reaction in the drug he suspected was the culprit, he activated a high pitched, experimental signal used to out and control Shifters.Thus he’d solved the case.And in the process discovered a deep, underground world.





	1. Hound of the Baskervilles

**Author's Note:**

> This fic starts after they leave the moors the second time, at the end of S202. For my purposes, Lestrade did not come out. Assume they found out about the dog themselves.
> 
> Fair warning, this has not been beta'd nor Brit-picked. Updates will be sporadic at least to start with, if people are interested though I vow I'll finish. Chapter lengths may be very odd.
> 
> If you're interested in doing beta or Brit-picking, please message me on tumblr; binx0r.tumblr.com

Henry, John and Sherlock made their way back towards Baskerville, their rented rover silent inside. John thought at this point he would be nervous, but he was quite calm. He could see his flatmate working on his ‘whatever remains however improbable’ issue of the past three days as it had culminated finally. Or perhaps he should have been shaken by the Shifter who’d just blown himself up in a minefield, but that was just more of the horrors he’d seen plenty of in Afghanistan.

John was, unfortunately, the only one really available to drive at this time… so the drive back was slow and jerky.

“Quite anticlimactic.” Sherlock mumbled in the passenger seat as John stalled the rover for the second time. John just grinned.

“So that was…” Henry stumbled on his tongue as he asked, color just beginning to seep back into his face.

John waited, but Sherlock was still in his own head. Not his mind palace, likely, but on the surface while he worked it out. “Yeah.” John answered in his place.

“I guess… at least I’m not crazy.”

“You could look at it like that.” John offered, grinding the gear shift but managing to continue down the dark country road.

“Or all of us are.” Henry said, mostly to himself, as his face drooped more than normal.

“Doubtful.” Sherlock finally interjected. His gaze was harshly trained on the compound ahead of them, which the headlights had just illuminated.

John stalled again, and just shut off the engine. He left the lights on.

“Sherlock…” John stared ahead. “What is this?”

The detective didn’t answer. He stepped out of the rover and left the door open as he walked forwards and ran his gloved hand over the empty poles sticking out of the earth, fingers skipping over the holes where the tin sign used to rest.

Baskerville had been stripped, in the few hours they’d been gone. The tire tracks around the yard told him intimately how the equipment had come and gone, large heavy trucks, cement mixers, two semis as well. He read the ground like a school-child’s book as his heart pumped his head, pounded in it. John was already inspecting the fence at the front, a simple chain and lock on it now, even the motors that opened the gate at the guard post were gone.

“Don’t bother, John.” Sherlock called, as quietly as he could while being heard. “They’ve filled it. Everything underground.”

John looked back toward the sign,and to the rover where Henry was still sitting, head in his hands. “That’s not…” He turned back to the lock and jiggled it.

“Possible? Are you really in a position to say that?” Sherlock sighed and walked swiftly over. He pulled a pin from his coat and made quick work of the simple lock. He pushed it open. It didn’t squeak. “If you’re so keen on seeing for yourself…” He made a gentleman’s gesture and John gave him an odd look. But he had to see.

John walked up, kept himself from jogging, to the building where they’d taken the lift underground. The security system had been removed, all that remained were the holes that fed wires to the card readers. Nothing was locked, security doors completely gone. And the outer lift doors were open, lift itself gone or... Dusty boot prints littered the area, not military but still professional. He sat on his haunches beside the open doors and put one finger to the grey grit settling there. It was still wet, wet enough for him to write his initials or a heart or whatever else people wrote in wet cement. His heart thumped and his brain turned over itself. This is what happened, when they’d finally found the proof. It was gone. They’d done what they could to save a life, even after John was exposed. But they’d lost the bigger battle; military experimentation on Shifters. Now they had…

“Nothing.”

John turned, seeing Sherlock at the door, leaning against the frame as he lifted his gaze from the side (to be aloof, to ‘look cool’) up to John’s face. He wore his careful, neutral expression but his eyes were compassionate. So many people mistook the icy blue for cold (and it sometimes… often… was. But not always).

“Yeah…” John licked his lips thoughtfully, troubled. “Nothing is all we have. Sherlock…” He stood, the twinge in his leg back for a split second. He opened his mouth to say something else, to ask… but he stopped. Sherlock was staring at him, carefully and curiously. He waited for John to speak. After a tick, John awkwardly cleared his throat and shifted his weight. That look, when it was entirely focused on one thing, was often awe-inspiring. When it was focused entirely on _him_ however… “Sherlock….” He began, but stumbled.

“John.”

John huffed a little and narrowed his eyes only slightly. He shifted again, this time in agitation. “Sherlock, you’ve got to say something, _something_.”

Sherlock let his head tilt just slightly and he cocked a brow. He didn’t speak.

John wrankled, fisting and unfisting his left hand. “Sherlock.” He said, in his commanding, military tone. The irony of their setting was not lost. Sherlock smirked.

“Captain John Watson.” For half a tick, John thought he would have to just leave it and huff off. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Army doctor.” He raised both brows, looking proud. Of himself, or of John, the man opposite couldn’t tell. “Doctor Captain, or Captain Doctor… hard, with all those titles. To decide on one. Now, at least to some, there’s another. What is it?”

John’s face softened, and aged a little. He lost his command and looked just… tired. “Shifter. It’s what we call ourselves, to one another.” He could read the curiosity on his friend’s face. “Not many of us, not that I know of. No society I’m aware of or anything, no signals other than… scent, really.”

Sherlock looked quite interested at that. “But that’s…” he read the nervous agitation on John’s face, “not what you want me to say. Not… what you’d prefer to discuss.”

John was a little surprised at his self control. Here was a sublime mystery, totally new and relevant information… and he managed to put that aside. Not permanently, he was totally sure of that. But just for now was enough. “Yes.”

Sherlock waited a moment, then frowned. “What, you want me to guess?”

“No.” John huffed, shifting once more. “No, it’s just… difficult.” He maintained eye contact, though he wanted terribly to look away. He was lying, they both knew. He wanted Sherlock to deduce it out, to shorten the conversation to another quickly spouted rant that he could just be impressed by and leave it at that.

Sherlock’s eyes squinted a second, then he folded his hands behind his back and stood a little straighter. “‘Shifter’ then. Yes. Not just ‘werewolves’, though that’s what you are. A warrah. Falkland Islands wolf, Antarctic wolf, dusicyon australis. An animal researched by Charles Darwin preceding its extinction in the late 1800s. I doubt you’ve been around that long, so it’s not directly related to the species itself. And Dr Frankland... he was a larger variety, grey wolf, canis lupus. Black, though. Ironically. He spent most of his time in a half shifted form while wandering the mist, meaning you don’t need to or perhaps not all can become fully shifted. As you can. The formation of…” He stopped, looking at the expression on John’s face and scrunching his brow. “John.” He wasn’t impressed, relieved, annoyed. He still looked tired, very tired, and had basically stopped listening. “Did I get it wrong? No. That’s not…”

Running a palm over his face, John sighed. “No, you’re spot on.”

“But… there’s something I’m missing.”

“No. Yes. Sherlock it’s.. I know it’s not your area, I just… right now…. Usually I get it, it’s endearing almost. But…”

“But…” Sherlock knew he needed to finish the thought, that John couldn’t. But he was correct, this was not his area. He would try. “But it’s important that I… don’t say anything? John, they may have covered everything up, but they have the tapes of you in the lab.”

“No…”

Sherlock changed rails, prodding for the answer. Why couldn’t John just say it? “But you worry I won’t bring you with me on cases anymore.”

“Y-no, no, Sherlock just…” He huffed. All that genius and he couldn’t understand. So many things, though, so many that John couldn’t say because to Sherlock the work came first and nothing came after it. This was home now; with Sherlock, running through London or the moors or wherever else there was something interesting going on… but it had been Sherlock’s home much longer, and it was his gate to keep. He took a deep breath and pressed his face into his hand, the cool air pushing into the small hallway making him feel just a bit better. “Sherlock.” He shouldn’t have said the name first, that made it harder. “I worry that you won’t take me _anywhere_ anymore, I blew the case and I’m a huge liability and I intentionally lied and covered up something that could have cost you your life, nearly did in fact. That-”

“John.”

John started as he moved his hand at the soft voice he realized was directly above him. Sherlock stared down with a mute expression and his sharp, raptorial eyes. Neither moved.

“John.” He repeated. They stared at one another, John in fear and Sherlock in a painted mask of calm that broke into a warm, clever grin. “You’d be better disposed worrying I’ll run a myriad of experiments on you.”

It took a second, but John let out a relieved puff and broke into the same sort of giggles he’d done on the second night he’d known the impossible man in front of him. Sherlock joined in just a touch.

“Come now, John, you think I’d let something this interesting take away my friend?” He quipped with his silly grinch-like curling smile. “I’ve only got the one.”

Then there was a loud bang from outside that made them both start, their faces losing all mirth.

“Henry.” John said in alarm, and they both raced out of the abandoned military base and towards the rover. In the distance, they saw the struggling of three or four dark figures and the erratic light from several torches dancing along with them. Henry’s muffled cries barely made it to them through the thick, not quite fog in the field. “Henry!”

They both raced toward the gate, halfway opposite the way the intruders were dragging Henry to what they could barely make out as a black sedan with the headlights off. Unless Henry could break free, they’d never make it in time.

“Bugger this…” John mumbled under his breath. He set his face and threw off his coat, letting it flutter behind him.

Sherlock pushed himself harder and yelled as he realized what John was doing. “John NO!”

But the hair on John’s head was darkening into a thick auburn, his ears pushing up on his skull. He didn’t break stride for more than a second to kick off his shoes and shake off his clothes as they loosened on his changing frame. The tail finished sprouting, the tip a shimmering white that caught Sherlock’s shrewd gaze as the clouds shifted enough to let the moonlight cast down on them, if only for just a few seconds. He tried his best to keep his breath in him at the sight of it, now ahead by several meters. He pushed harder, but he knew he wouldn’t catch up. He had to distract him, get his attention-which at the moment was laser focused on what John Watson did best; saving the life.

“John stop!” He roared, but keeping air in his lungs and pumping his legs AND keeping his brain going all at once was hindering all those things. He allowed an exhale to curse and stopped, doubling back just a few feet to the rover. Henry’s passenger door had the window smashed out, likely the sound they heard. Sherlock didn’t bother shutting doors, though, he just twisted the key John had left to keep the headlights on and shifted, turning the wheel at the same time. As he lurched forwards, petal on the mat, the light that came with him caught the moment John lunged at the closest man. Henry yelled, muffled by the bag over his head, as he was jostled to the ground. The hand holding him had been ripped off as John tackled one of the dark figures to the ground. He didn’t bite into flesh, just kicked off at the next. By using the fallen figure’s abdomen as a launching pad, he knocked the air out of him.

There was an echoing bang, and Sherlock’s rental vehicle tilted sharply left as that front wheel was shot out. He tried to correct but at that speed and on that terrain, the rover rolled.

John looked up in alarm, and a tinny yelp escaped him. While he’d been distracted, out of sight came another shot, and John felt the needled head dig into his pelt. Panic flooded him as he watched the vehicle rock and finally stop only about ten yards away from him. He could smell the blood, the familiar blood of Sherlock Holmes.

Behind him was a din of voices, but he didn’t pay them any attention. His mind started to fog and he ripped away from grabbing hands, nipping, drawing blood and curses. He was dully aware of Henry being pushed down into the mud beside him and away from the sedan, then… his mind flooded with fear as someone, he couldn’t see his vision was black, someone snapped a muzzle on him. He howled in terror, trying to yell for Sherlock, to find if Sherlock was safe, but as a full wolf he didn’t have the vocal cords to do much but yelp desperately.

The last thing he knew, Sherlock’s blood was in his nose and rough hands were in his scruff, pulling, pulling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of feel like that amount of information about wolves wouldn’t be something Sherlock would think to ‘keep’ in his head, but it didn’t fit in the story to tell you he researched it after seeing John’s first shift. He knows a ton about wolves now because he had to identify the particular kind John is, and it’s extinct.


	2. A Minor Position in the British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft knows exactly as much as Sherlocks usual expectations; more than he'd admit and less than he'd guessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor gore warning? But not really??? Sherlock just crashed in a car so that sort of thing.

Sherlock clawed his left-handed fingers into the crab grass and mud, pulling hard to free himself from the metal and glass. The other arm was trapped beneath him. One eye was unable to open, he assumed due to trauma around the area causing swelling. He felt the hot, thick drops trickle lazily down his face but ignored it in favor of concentrating on getting up and out of the wreck. He could smell gas, but there was no fire he could see to ignite it. And besides, they had little over an eighth tank when they’d arrived at what used to be Baskerville. The throbbing was in his head, mostly, and he was vaguely certain he’d struck the steering wheel. All his effort had been deployed to keep him from flying out of the vehicle without a seatbelt on. He sneered as his brain insisted he be aware he could not feel his legs.

The ringing that clouded his hearing hid the crunch of dirt nearby, but did not conceal the whipping wind created by quick-spinning blades. Sherlock tried to deduce if it were friend or foe upon him, most likely the former as the sun was up and none had come to finish him off in the hours he had been trapped. He lay still anyway, to be safe, as he listened to the rotors slow after the landing.

“Really, playing possum? Mundane, even for you, brother mine.” A familiar sardonic drawl said beside and above him as he felt movement on the other side of the overturned vehicle. Sherlock opened his one working eye to a pair of ostentatious leather shoes and most of the accompanying trousers as Mycroft had crouched next to him.

Something ground around him, and shifted. He could hear men and one, no two, women calling instruction and conditions. He pushed them out of his awareness. “You are damn late,” He rasped, finding it grated terribly on his throat and he sounded nothing like himself.

“Hm, yes, well…” Mycroft twirled the tip of his umbrella in the dirt, where it poked down to help support his awkward position. “Middle of nowhere as this is…”

“Still managed to get an entire crew in here, all within a few hours.” The thing pinning his legs lifted out of the mud and off him by a few inches, and he decided he definitely would have full use of them again. Now he could feel the cramping and pain, less than expected actually, and the absence of anything broken (in his legs at least) was fortuitous.

“Hm. You give me far too much credit, it seems. It would appear we have quite a pest problem. More than, I admit, even I was previously aware. Likely the crew were standing by as soon as the base here began researching something very different than their reports would lead you to ascertain.”

“Such as luminescent rabbits?” Sherlock coughed, trying to turn his face out of the dust he was inhaling.

“Such as luminescent _Shifters_.” Mycroft said, and as Sherlock’s one good eye grew wide and he opened his mouth, his brother stood up and away. Two people took his place, one on either side, and steadied the car as a jack pushed it up. A third was on Sherlock, and they pulled him out onto a stretcher before releasing the jack and letting the wreckage fall back into the dirt.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock growled, not fast enough in his shock to stop them strapping him down to the stretcher and the helicopter started up again. “Where is John!” He yelled over the deafening hum of the blades above him, pushing whatever of his dark curls weren’t matted to him with dried blood.

“Not ‘Where are John and Henry?’ Ah right. You become single minded when you’re emotional.” Mycroft appeared beside him as the stretcher was raised into the chopper, cutting off a scathing retort. “Mr Knight has been taken to hospital, if you recover your sense enough to take notice.” Mycroft examined his umbrella, failing to look bored (at least to Sherlock). “We really must discuss the kind of company, however little of it, that you keep. Really, Sherlock…” He tsked as if he were a disappointed mother (which he’d never admit he often felt like), “an unregistered Shifter.”

Sherlock tried to sit up, furious. But if the sickly wrongness of his movement and the shooting pains were any indication, he found he had broken at least two bones in his right arm. He quickly compensated with his left and pulled off his upper restraints. Once bolt upright, he faced both his unimpressed, annoyed brother, and two doctors. “A war hero, a doctor, my flatmate and my friend. Where. is. John. Watson?” He demanded, his voice gravelly, low, and dangerous.

Mycroft studied his baby brother a moment, letting his mouth curl downwards in pity and disapproval. “I’m afraid we aren’t exactly certain.”

Then Sherlock was shoved down by his doctors, who were warned properly about him, and drawn up into the helicopter. It left Mycroft behind, standing while leaning forward on his umbrella with both hands clutched atop it. He watched it rise, heard the underside of Sherlock’s tantrum, then turned on his heel with a sigh as his driver opened his car door for him. He shuffled gracefully, wearily, in to face his assistant.

“Keep on the CCTV surveillance and ensure all relevant documentation is delivered to my brother, provided he stays in hospital and listens, at least somewhat, to his physicians.” Mycroft huffed silently and looked out the darkened window distastefully at the totalled rental rover as his investigation team combed over the site. “If he behaves, return this to him after it’s been to the lab.” He added, tapping his fingers on the plastic evidence bag, one of many collected. This one contained a black Haversack coat, with leather patches on the elbows and shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm delighted by the quick response, thank you so much for your kudos and feel free to comment!
> 
> Currently twelve chapters are planned (more or less) but there will be more than that. Sorry this chapter was so short ^_^;


	3. How Watson Learned the Trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in transit and tries to figure things out, and ignore how worried he is about Sherlock. He is in some ways successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this somewhat makes up for yesterday's very short chapter. I now have 20 chapters planned. I do not promise I'll update daily, I will just write as I can and post when it's ready.
> 
> I am fluttery and inspired by all the hits and kudos in the last two days! Feel free to also comment. Love you all!

A rumbling and enough shaking to knock his head against the cold floor made John wake with a start. He was alert for less than a second before the motion and the drugs still in his system made his awareness spin about and lay his head back down. His eyes were too blurred to be of use at the moment, so he closed them and tried his ears instead. Everything was a cacophonous wreck to his advanced hearing, and he was a bit addled by being in his shift when waking up. Not that he changed in his sleep, that would be disastrous. No, he hadn’t been shifted to go to sleep since he was prepubescent. 

When John managed to become used enough to the noises he'd been drowning in to concentrate on individual ones, he knew more or less where he was. Or, more accurately, that he could be literally anywhere on the planet. The great grinding and whirring was an airplane engine, and not one he recognized. So it couldn’t be military or civilian. Which meant it was a private jet. He thought smugly through the mud in his mind, that maybe Sherlock would be at least a little impressed with his deduction.

That was where any joy he had ended. He had no idea how long he’d been out, and his mind was still fuzzy enough he couldn’t recall how he’d determine that. So he could  _ be  _ anywhere,  _ going _ anywhere. He tried moving, one thing at a time. He started with his muzzle, which was a mistake. He couldn’t open it, not half a millimeter. Now his tongue itched, he pressed it to the top of his mouth but it didn’t help. He internally shook it off and tried something else. His paws. He could pad them up and down, but they were restrained at what could be considered his wrists. Same with his back paws. He supposed he was lucky he wasn’t hogtied. There was also something around his rib cage that was attached to the floor, and apparently they weren’t taking any risks because his tail was similarly bound. Even though dogs tails aren’t prehensile. 

Blinking his eyes open to keep himself from going back under, John breathed deeply in from his nose. He could catch the tiniest trace of Sherlock’s blood still in his nostrils.  _ ‘Shit _ .’ He thought, as he couldn’t currently speak. His mood curdled further as he realized he’d likely have one hell of a time finding out Sherlock’s condition, perhaps more even than getting out of this predicament. 

Then his eye caught movement. What he could see was illuminated only by security lights, and that left a good portion of what he assumed was the cargo hold pitched in shadows at best. From the brief shift across his periphery, he guessed who or whatever it was, it was also behind bars. ‘ _ Bars? Really? I’m strapped down _ excessively.’ 

He figured he could create noise in his throat, at least attempt to make it some kind of signal… his question moreso was; should he? 

As his eyes adjusted, John started to see shapes. He presumed some might be lashed down as he was, but he couldn’t see that far down. What he could determine was there seemed to be about a half dozen silhouettes, and those had at least partial movement. One began to approach. John suspected it had noticed he was awake.

At the sound of a door or hatch opening, the shadows all backed away into total darkness. John’s hackles threatened to give him away, but he calmed his breathing and closed his eyes. He heard a somehow familiar set of footsteps. The scent in his nose now, wiping out all but the memory of Sherlock’s blood, was musky. A mix of sand and dirt, plain soap and one of those ‘mountain’ themed aftershaves, cotton and leather. The clacking march ended, and John heard the interloper huff at him. He did not move.

“Cute.”

John felt a tug of the irritation he felt when someone seemed to be implying he was in love with Sherlock, hearing the faux compliment in a mild, chalky baritone. He still didn’t move.

“Pretending to be asleep, Dr Watson? Or can I call you John? This is hardly our first meeting.”

John decided the man was calling his bluff in earnest, so he relented to opening his eyes. He immediately narrowed them as he looked at an odd angle up at his captor. The man, whom he didn’t recognize, was sitting on his haunches with his arms rested relaxedly on his thighs. He gave John a warm, confident smile and a little wave that made his fur stand up. The man had light hair and a scar over his left eye, wore a plain white tee and army pants, and held a toothpick in his teeth. John did not recognize him.

“Don’t remember?” The man asked, speaking as if they were having a fun chat over tea. He had a distinct accent, though John couldn’t place it yet. “Ta, well. There was a bag over your head, then I was pointing a laser pointer at you from the dark, to be fair.”

A chill ran through John’s pelt, and he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth again. Again, it didn’t help. He huffed out his nose, trying to bring what he was told into question.

“Got me. It was a laser  _ scope _ .” The man huffed bemusedly, seeming to understand. “You should have a bit of an easier time realizing the position you’re in here, now that it’s your second time. If you manage to convince me of that, I might give you a bit more wiggle room.”

John tried to convey something more difficult; indignation. It seemed to take.

“Yeah. Gotcha.” The man held eye contact with John as he moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He stood and held his eye a touch longer, then turned out of John’s range of vision. He strained his eyes turning them towards the muted noises in the hold. 

When the blond man returned, he had a rifle. He levelled it at John’s back leg, but looked John in the eye. John looked right back, gaze hard and steadfast. 

“You understand, huh? When you wake again, you’ll be less restrained. Unless you misbehave. So do what you're told like a good dog.” The rifle was much quieter than it would have been with a bullet. The initial stab was in his bad leg, making John bear his teeth through the muzzle, and the freezing liquid pumped quickly into his veins. “By the way, I’m Sebastian Moran. You can call me Seb.” 

John barely made out the last word before he felt himself limpen and his head fill with fog.


	4. Further Down the Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally takes on the glowing rabbit case.

Two weeks. That’s the amount of time Sherlock lost, mostly lost, while he was made to stay in hospital and give his arm time to mend. Apparently, Mycroft didn’t trust him on his own to keep the cast on. The only reason he tolerated it, mostly, was that people (mostly his assistant) brought him nearly everything he requested. Mostly information. That, coupled with the internet, was something at least.

But still, Sherlock felt no closer to finding who took John. Because although Mycroft shared some information, none of it pertained to Shifters. After eliminating all else, Sherlock was convinced that’s where the answers lay. The people who’d taken John knew about Shifters, and it was a likely case it was the very reason he was taken to start off.

Bristling with irritated energy, he tapped his fingers on the arm of the wheelchair where he sat, waiting for his cab. He’d never have put up with this nonsense, except there was Mrs Hudson, hand on his shoulder. He’d finally made Mycroft relent, but he’d only agreed to give Sherlock the go-ahead to leave if his landlady came and gave her approval, and saw him off. Sherlock mused it was because he was supposed to have some reaction, as if seeing her would remind him not to be overly reckless. As if that were ever the case. Nonetheless, he’d made the agreement to not remove the cast on his own. With his coat on and if he held himself a certain way, most people wouldn’t notice either way. 

Watching the cab pull up on the curb, Sherlock leapt out of the chair, pecked Mrs Hudson on the cheek, and was off. After all that time to plan, he knew exactly where he was going. Exactly where he might find an elusive door into Shifter society. He tried, after giving the address, to not dwell on the very frustrating fact he’d not seen the proverbial hide nor hair of all of this before it’d been thrust in his face. Stupid.

\---

As he watched the London outskirts whip past him out the train window, Sherlock felt increasingly irritated. He’d taken this exact route three weeks prior, with John, and that made it difficult to sit still. He felt like a smoke, so he grumbled about as he withdrew a box of patches he’d gotten on his way out of hospital. One. One was all he needed.

Tenting his fingers, Sherlock went about scanning the car he was in for the third time. That damned woman with the West Highland terrier was here again, apparently since deciding to not grant her son's plea for money but instead to move in with him until he cleaned up his act. It made Sherlock frown. The man wasn’t neglectful of his obligations, he was a victim of circumstance. But it was far from his problem.

Distractions weren’t working, so he peeled the back off a patch with some difficulty and stuck it to his good arm. He’d allowed Mycroft to keep him in that damned place far too long. He had matters of much greater importance than removing his own cast just to annoy his brother, regardless of whatever complications it would cause should it heal improperly.

It was roughly another three hours to Dartmoor so he took out his working file and flipped it open.

\--- 

Sherlock arrived at the small residence in the back country surrounding Dartmoor around 5 that evening. He didn’t bother knocking, rather he let himself into the garden by way of the lattice gate and strolled along around behind the house.

He began to carefully inspect the smallish rabbit hutch, though he’d long since solved the ‘locked door rabbit escape’ case. It didn’t take long to get what he was actually looking for.

“Excuse me, this is private property.” A biting, lyrical voice asked behind him. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr…?”

“Holmes.” Sherlock finished for her, standing up straight and turning to the small young woman who had come from the house. She had a plain sort of brown hair, but with oddly spaced bits of a much lighter color. As if her hairdresser was attempting to mottle it. Sherlock let his mouth turn up a twinge. He’d been right in one. He processed her ( _college graduate, smoker for three years, recently quit cold turkey, bad at gardening, swimmer_ ). “And I am, in fact, here to help _you_. Hired, even.” His eyes left the discerning, somewhat hostile gaze of the woman and fell upon the meek little girl, peeking halfway ‘round the sliding glass. “Hullo, Kirsty.”

The woman frowned hard and stood between them, blocking Sherlock’s line of sight. “What the hell do you want with her?”

Sherlock looked her in the eye. “Nothing. I’m here for you.” He lowered his voice so the child couldn’t overhear. “Bluebell.”

\---

Sherlock inspected the tea he’d been given by the 8 year old with little confidence. He sat at the kitchen table with the escaped rabbit, who was currently a woman, as the small girl excitedly made up a plate of biscuits.

“K told me you dismissed her case.” Bluebell huffed quietly, tapping her foot rapidly on the tile.

“Actually I only pointed out it was a ridiculous case. I was not wrong, wouldn’t you agree?”

Bluebell glared. She took the plate of biscuits Kirsty had brought over and placed them in front of Sherlock. She shot him another mean look before turning her entire body to face the child, her demeanor changing completely. “K, I know it’s your friend Mr Holmes has come to find, but I need to talk to him about a few things first. Could you please go into mommy’s study and water her plants for me?”

The girl looked curiously at her, then tilted her head to look at Sherlock. His eyes flicked to the biscuits and back, and he took one up with a nod. She seemed to be satisfied with that. She looked back at Bluebell and Sherlock put the thing down, wiping his hand on a napkin.

“Yes, Ms Grant.” Kirsty said. She ran off, presumably to do what she’d been told.

Bluebell turned back to Sherlock with a swivel of her stool, her posture still and closed again. “Now. I know you well enough to assume you’ve come for a reason, and not just to harass me.”

“Do you?” Sherlock prodded, trying the tea. It was passable.

“Yes. Dr Stapleton told me about your questioning and your discoveries.” Bluebell’s stern gaze turned to one of smug superiority, and she crossed one leg over the other. It stopped tapping. “You were wrong.”

Sherlock frowned now. He wanted to play, but he really didn’t have the time. “Wrong?”

“Yes. You accused Dr Stapleton of my murder. Yet here I am.”

“You’re not going to deny what you are.”

“No, not to you, not in private. I also know it’s useless to try. I don’t need you to go off on some tangent about how my hair and my eyelashes and whatever else is empirical evidence of your claim. Let’s get to it, Kirsty likes to listen in. She’s too smart for her wellbeing.”

“But she is unaware you used to be her pet.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes…” Bluebell sighed, irritated. “Really, you’re very dramatic. Do you need to spell everything out?”

“Don’t I?”

“You really don’t, not to me.”

Sherlock found himself a little impressed, despite himself. John must be rubbing off on him. "Very well, then. Why don’t you tell me why you’re living in this house, as a human, and where Dr Stapleton has gone.”

Bluebell narrowed her eyes a touch and uncrossed her legs slowly. Then she crossed them again, the other way around. “I’m here out of her sympathy, and neither of us is likely to ever see the doctor again.” This wording made Sherlock internally flinch. “She’s alive, I’m sure, but not in this country any longer, maybe even in the UK at all. I wouldn’t know. All I know is they’ve moved her, and when they do that… you’re gone. I’m, as I am certain you can tell, from Canada. I can’t go back, either. It’d be suicide to try.”

“You’re being hunted, then?”

“Not exactly, at least not in the traditional sense. They wouldn’t kill me. I’d just be recaged. You and Captain Watson ruffled more than a few feathers, so I think they’ll be busy enough to leave me alone. They might think I’m dead. I was supposed to be. But I was lucky. See, none of the other Shifters Dr Stapleton worked with had her daughter’s name.”

Sherlock’s mind whirred with (finally) new information, and Bluebell took a gulp of her tea and a biscuit. “Kirsty Grant.”

“Kirsty Bellefeuille, by birth. Grant is a cover.”

“Obviously. And you’re now employed here as what, the nanny?”

“Something like that.”

“Why start out as a rabbit?”

Bluebell sighed and replaced her cup in its saucer, keeping tuned to the hall Kirsty had gone down. She couldn’t hear any of this. “Safer, less conspicuous. Until the gene therapy finally kicked in. She hadn’t thought it would, it took a week from injection to be remotely detectable in my fur. By then it was too late to take me back, but Kirsty started telling people I was a fairy, and Bluebell had to go. Had to be something a child made in her fantasies. She doesn’t know.”

“What did the authorities at Baskerville think when you disappeared?”

“They didn’t. A lot of Shifters died there. It was easy enough to sell one more. I was the smallest Shift there, honestly I wasn’t expected to survive many of their tests.”

“Clean. Except the botched experiment, Stapleton had a solid plan. There is always something. And you… what are you going to do now?”

Bluebell nibbled at her biscuit and somehow managed to give the impression she was looking down at Sherlock, despite the fact she was only around five feet tall. Sherlock put a half-finished theory about a Shifter’s size correlating to their animal in a nook in his mind palace for later.  

“Me, Mr Holmes?” She scrutinized him a moment. “Why do you care?” She wasn’t being salty, rather her tone was discerning. “You’re not going to turn me in, even if you had any idea how.” Something clicked for her and she put down her treat, brushing her hands on one another. She slid off her stool and came up to squint at his face more closely. “You need me for something.” She watched his lack of reaction and raised a brow. Then she leaned back, hands confidently resting on her hips. “Where is Captain Watson, Mr Holmes?”

Before Sherlock could think of a reply to that, she turned soft again as her gaze went to the hall.

“How was mummy’s aloe?” Bluebell swept lightly past him and took Kirsty’s hand, talking breezily to her as they went out to the garden together, leaving Sherlock with his cooling tea, abandoned biscuit, and deductions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has a favorite endangered animal, or one that's recently (within the last century or so) gone extinct, please leave a little info about it in the comments. If you're lucky, it may appear as a character!


	5. The Three Students

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets more emotionally invested and I try to give exposition as organically as possible.

Waking up this time was a little easier. John thought dully that the concentration of the drug was either lowered or they used something different. He wouldn’t be able to tell until his brain stopped doing cartwheels under his skull. He was also able, to his great relief, to stretch his limbs and fully open his mouth. But movement next to him made him jolt in surprise, and his eyes shot open. He blinked quickly to adjust his eyes and brain, and he saw a pair of large eyes looking back at him. Another few blinks and their owner became apparent; a middle aged woman kneeling beside him, wearing what looked like a hospital gown.

“Easy, dear.” The woman’s soft voice tried to soothe his tension, which encompassed his whole furry body. “It will wear off in a moment, and if you feel up to shedding…” She pushed a pair of hospital trousers at him with a matronly smile. “We’ll give you what little space we can.”

As he rolled onto his belly, panting a few breaths and smacking his dry tongue in his mouth, John could see a little collection of figures in the larger cage he’d spied across from the one he’d originally woken in. They’d moved him in with the others. He didn’t feel up to attempting to shift back until he could stand, and he was still too dizzy to make an attempt. So he looked at the folk locked in with him.

Including the silver-haired woman who’d spoken with him, the others all had their backs turned and were on the far side near the bars, giving him space and what privacy they could afford. From what he could make out in the dank hold, there were six others; two small girls who were likely about seven years each who huddled together, a stocky man without a shirt on who was either bald or shaved his head, what looked like a very large fluffy cat on it’s side, and something a few stone larger than a man that was curled in the corner opposite the rest. All those in human form wore similar drab garb, and he was reminded of slave trade. He pawed the trousers closer.

\---

It took about another 15 minutes for John to settle down enough to shift back. The fact that at least two of his fellow captives were children did not help his concentration. It all made him the kind of angry that stilled his entire body and seemed to replace the very blood in his veins. When he was finally ready to face them, he was more frustrated at how he'd handled himself than anything.

“You've been more than patient. Thank you.” He said, keeping his voice down to avoid attention, should there be any of their abductors about.

The girls, whom John now strongly suspected were twins at the sight of their identical features, were the first to turn back to him. One eyed him warily, while the other came right up to him. John looked down at her and blinked.

“What's that?” She asked, pointing with her whole arm at his left shoulder. The spidering scar of his wartime exit wound was no longer (mostly) concealed by fur. “Can I touch it?”

“Uh.” John blinked at the almost normal reaction in an especially abnormal situation.

“Mads.” The other girl hissed from where she stood, at the shoulder of the woman who'd first spoken to John. The girl in front of John waved her off without looking, keeping her curious eyes shining at the soldier.

John cleared his throat and sat down cross legged. “Yeah, if you want.” He replied, won over by her fearless nature. It was contagious.

The girl, Mads apparently, smiled and didn't hesitate to come right up and investigate the scars both front and back of John’s shoulder. It was still quite stiff some days, and both his shifting and being restrained brought out some old aches he'd been done with for some time.

“Why is this one smaller?” She asked, gently prodding the bullet’s entry wound. Nobody had done that since the last time a doctor who wasn’t him changed the gauze on the original injury.

“I was shot straight through, from the back. When the round entered it was cleaner, and it takes a lot of force to get through everything in its way. So it sort of takes bits of whoever it hits with it when it comes out the other side.” John was not used to teaching, and he wasn't sure any of this was appropriate… but he also felt he should be honest with them when he could. He would almost certainly have to lie about something crucial later.

Mads seemed to either understand or not care she didn't. She mimed the explosion. It tickled. “Did it hurt?” She looked up at him.

John smiled at her. “Yeah. It hurt a lot.”

“I think that's enough now, Maddie.” The woman from before beckoned Mads back.

By now all the figures had repositioned themselves more comfortably, except the large animal. Most of them just sat with their backs against the bars, and the fluffy cat stretched.

“Thank you for being patient with her. This is Maddie and Estrelle, or Mads and Strel as they prefer.” The woman introduced the twins. Strel was still glaring and wary, but she'd moved closer to the large figure curled in the corner to hide behind now. “I am Gigi, the quiet one does not speak English but I think his name is Gord, the cat is Faas, and the fellow in the corner is just called Colonel. They haven't shedded since I've known them, and mostly they just sleep.”

“John Watson." He replied. "You said that before, too. What is ‘shedding’?” John asked, stretching and rolling his bad shoulder as he looked over at Colonel. Strel hissed at him. He ignored it.

“You’re not a generational, then.” Gigi mused, stroking the cat as he curled up in her lap. That made John wrinkle his brow. Wasn’t that a person? Was it somehow actually a cat?

“Uh, no. Likely not. Are Shifters born in families, then?”

“Hm. Mostly. But it’s not rare to see them in a family without any connection, either. What is rare is one that gets to your age without being discovered.”

John blinked. “Is this abduction scheme far reaching?”

“No, dear. I meant by other Shifters, who would explain to you that Shifters going back to their human state call that shedding. Shedding the animal, it means. When you ‘shift’, that’s going _into_ the animal. We have some time. I was going to teach a little Shifter culture to the girls, if you’d like to listen. They haven’t said where they’re from, but they don’t know much about themselves either.”

“Yeah…” John looked from the closed off Strel over to Mads, who was pacing around and looking at everything around them. He hadn’t forgotten for a second where he was and what it meant. He was starting to suspect these two children didn’t either. “Yeah, it’d be good to catch up on things.”

 

\---

 

Gigi explained that Shifters were mostly mammals, and never fish or insects or anything smaller than a jackrabbit. They could be extinct or endangered animals, if the species had been around in the past hundred years or so, but it happened about one in a thousand. And the Shifter to human ratio was about one in half a million, meaning there were about 14,000 Shifters on the planet.

“What else is real?” John asked, half a cynical joke.

“More than I know. We can see it, too. If we know how to look. Humans can’t, unless they’re alchemists or mages or that sort.”

John looked at the woman, who couldn’t have been more than 15 years his senior, as if she wasn’t petting a cat he couldn’t with certainty say was not a person. As if she was making things up. “Mages? You expect me to just…”

“How much does it make sense to you, Doctor, that your bones shift and your skin sprouts thick fur, and you lose your ability to speak? You have been part of a very small world most of your life.”

John let his face sink into resignation, then ran his hand down it. “Yeah. Right. I’ll…” He was going to say ‘ _ask Sherlock_ ’ before he stopped himself. There were plenty of things Sherlock could explain, that John thought previously were impossible. He couldn’t stop himself from a pained smile when he thought how perky the detective got when he was asked for clarification outright, given an excuse to show off. Was he alive? Was he still stuck in the middle of Dartmoor under a rental? John pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply through it. Then he let his hand and expression fall to neutral.

“Right. Okay. What else, then?”

“The fae, to begin with…” Gigi started, but Faas’ ears perked up and he raised his head towards the ladder up leading to the rest of the plane. “Girls.” She said in a hurried, hushed tone. Both came over to her, the bald man stood and though he had to duck a little he moved over to where the cage was locked. Faas seemed to vanish somewhere.

The hatch opened, flooding the place with light that made John, and everyone else with hands, put one up to guard their eyes. Boots clicked as they came down, shutting the hatch after and making everything seem that much darker. John turned to face out but didn’t stand. He sat up straight as his eyes adjusted to reveal the grinning figure in front of him.

“John.” Sebastian Moran greeted him warmly, and the first thing John noticed was the gas mask pulled back to rest on the man’s crown. “See you’re getting along comfortably.”

John didn’t reply in any way. He just kept Moran’s amused gaze with a stern one of his own.

Then the noises surrounding them changed, and John felt the hair on his neck stand up. They were losing altitude.

“Yeah. We’re nearly there. It’s not your last stop, not yet. But I wanted to see you beforehand. I won’t be around for a few weeks.”

John looked a little annoyed, but mostly unimpressed. If someone wanted to push his buttons, they’d have to do better. He’d lived for some time now with _Sherlock Holmes_. He did frown harder, however, when Moran gave him a full look over… down his broad chest to his thin trousers and back up, resting finally on his scar. Having the mercenary stare at it as he was was heaps more uncomfortable than Mads poking at it earlier. He didn’t look away until a beeping started, and John could hear the mechanical whirr of landing gear lowering.

“Shame.” Moran tsked, resting his hands on his hips and looking up at the hatch. “Later, Johnny.” He pulled down the gas mask. Nozzles John had missed, one on either side facing into the cage and just outside the bars, hissed as they pushed white smoke at them. John stood quickly and put his hand over his face, looking around. The group huddled in the corner were already resigned, just making sure they wouldn’t injure themselves when they fell unconscious. Only Gord, baring his teeth and keeping his face far from the center of the cage, seemed to still be fighting.

John turned to Moran with a fierce glare as the smoke swept around his feet. The chill and damp made him instantly feel freezing. He grabbed the mesh, which lay inside the larger metal bars to keep the smaller Shifters from getting out, with his free hand. To preemptively steady himself when his body failed him.

Moran stood there, watching him closely less than a foot away. Smugness oozed from his being, his posture. And John felt a rage he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. It gave him a migraine behind his right eyebrow and pooled in an ache in the top back of his skull. Helpless. Helpless against a faceless (Moran hardly counted) injustice that would be overlooked entirely, helpless to do anything for the six people with him and the countless others he was sure he’d both know and never see that were caught up in this sick operation.

‘ _Sherlock…_ ’ He thought fiercely. ‘ _You’d better find us._ ’

Then he was choking on the gas, doubling over as he gasped. It only fed more of the flavorless white smoke into his lungs, and he collapsed slowly down the metal mesh, not giving Moran the satisfaction of a curse.

He thought he felt the plane touch down before he went under, but he could never be certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to see a particular Shift in the story? Leave a suggestion in the comments!
> 
> What even are chapter lengths? Leave an answer in the comments!


	6. The Empty Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't quite get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for gore and animal abuse, if these are an issue for you I  
> a) apologize for not listing them in the tags, I hadn't planned this specifically until I wrote the chapter. And  
> b) have written important points down and left them in the notes at the bottom, please scroll past this chapter and read those. You won't have missed anything.
> 
> Sorry this took so long, and I won't be posting at all this weekend as I will be volunteering out of town. I'll try to post the next chapter tomorrow, but if I can't, I promise to have one up on Tuesday.

_Where are you? I know you were just released from hospital today but I have a case._

Sherlock locked his phone and replaced it in his pocket. He suspected DI Lestrade had been ordered by his brother to keep tabs on him, and the case was just a means to that end. But he couldn’t be sure, either. He looked up and over to Bluebell and Kirsty, who were supervising and climbing a tree, respectively. He replaced his gloves against the chill, just as his phone buzzed again. He ignored it for the moment.

“Miss Grant.”

The rabbit-shift turned to look at him, her hand still supporting Kirsty’s foot steadily. She sighed, unimpressed, as Sherlock looked at her from across the yard. His collar was up, his coat pushed out like a cape in the wind.

‘ _What a ridiculous man…_ ’ Bluebell thought to herself. She put her arms up and helped her charge down, the girl having executed her goal of pulling an apple off a higher limb. “I’ve answered your questions, Mr Holmes.”

“But he didn’t ask me anything.” Kirsty pointed out, frowning at him as she bit into her apple. “He’s here to find my rabbit, isn’t he?”

Sherlock blinked and looked down at her, then walked within a couple feet of her and crouched down. He’d seen John interact with children this way, and they seemed to be less prone to high volumes afterward. “Yes, Kirsty, I have taken your case. I promise to return Bluebell to you. But I’m going to need Miss Grant to help me. Will you lend her to me for a bit?”

He noticed Bluebell’s face sour in his peripherals, but kept his attention on the girl. “You want me to come with you.” She said sardonically. He ignored her.

“Mummy went away for work already, I don’t wanna be left alone.”

Sherlock held onto his patience. Honestly, he couldn’t find John quickly enough… “Your father will be here, and I can’t find Bluebell without her. You want to find her, do you not?” He asked, playing a part to keep himself from being cross. He tapped his finger inside his pocket.

“Now hold on.” Bluebell stepped forwards, very tempted to upset the fragile balance that kept Sherlock from falling backward onto his arse. “That’s a really sneaky way to phrase the question. And it’s not up to her, it’s my choice.”

Sherlock looked up at her, a superior smirk playing on his lips. His phone buzzed again. He ignored it. “With the lady of the house absent, Miss Stapleton is your employer, is she not?”

“Yeah.” Kirsty agreed, looking at a frustrated Bluebell. The woman pushed her hair back from her forehead. “I wanna have Bluebell _and_ you if Mummy will be gone a long time.” She nodded, seeming to make up her mind. “Daddy can take care of stuff for a little.”

Bluebell groaned and let her hand come back from her hair to cover her eyes. 

\---

“Do stop tapping your foot, it’s annoying.” Sherlock said as he finally took out his phone. They’d just found seats on the last train back to London, and Bluebell wasn’t impressed with his superior attitude apparently.

_I know you’re looking for John but you’ve said yourself you have no leads yet._

_Just… come to Bart’s when you get back in. Molly will show you what we have._

No leads… That wasn’t at all what he’d said to Mycroft, and he absolutely said nothing of the sort to Lestrade. He supposed he could go there before Baker Street, at least see what had the DI squawking at him. If it wasn’t just Mycroft, the nagging git.

“I’m here, Mr Holmes. Why?”

He looked up at her as he put his phone away and tented his fingers. “You seem to think you already know.” He answered dryly.

Bluebell gave him a look, then gazed out the window. She didn’t much like the city, and soon the green would be all but gone. “Yeah. But unlike you, I know I can be wrong. And I don’t like when people piss all over others who’ve made mistakes. So just tell me and we can skip the dramatics.”

“No…” Sherlock kept his eyes on her, looking for the little ticks and tells she’d be sure to give off. “It’s hours to London and I am bored. Go on, tell me.”

Bluebell sighed and looked at him. She was more exasperated than angry, not very common when Sherlock dealt with people who weren’t John or Lestrade. “Fine. I’d have to guess you know almost nothing about Shifters, not even that Captain Watson is one.” She scrutinized him just as carefully as he to her. He was able to keep himself a scary level of closed off. But she also figured if she’d misspoken he would jump on it. “Until getting to the research facility at least. I guess it would have raised too much of a fuss to kill you. You got in with fairly impressive credentials, after all.” She took a minute to think, as she was putting things together as she thought of them.  

“Yes, good.” Sherlock nodded to spur her on. “And…”

“And… you need an in with the Shifter community, since you’ve never touched on it before and there are no obvious doorways to them. You’re not using the Captain-”

“John.” Sherlock interjected.

“What?”

He put his hands down so they were no longer blocking part of his face. “He introduced himself as Captain Watson at Baskerville for credibility. But it will be easier if in our investigation you call him ‘John’.”

“Ah…” Bluebell had flinched when he’d said ‘Baskerville’. "I think until we have some sort of idea how to handle this, you should stop saying suspicious things at least in public, such as the name of my employer or the place she worked..." She huffed, but let it go and continued. “Ok then. John…” Sherlock seemed to be satisfied with that. “Ah, you’re not using John as an in, either because he doesn’t have one or because you don’t have him.” She watched carefully, then nodded. “Yeah. If you had him, he could tell you Shifters can smell one another. So even without being a generational, he could find something. From what K has told me about you two, you’ve become pretty inseparable. They took him, didn’t they?” Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his face darkened. She no longer felt she was being harshly scrutinized. “Yeah…” She sat back in her seat and put her arms on the rests. “I figured. I can’t say there’s much hope of finding him, Mr Holmes. But I will help you. I’m powerless to do anything about the Shifters they’ve taken and kept and killed on my own. But you aren’t. I have one thing I require in exchange, though.”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you want?”

“Your word. Your word that whatever the hell happens to either of us, Kirsty gets ‘Bluebell’ back. She’s already lost her mother and I’m not exactly confident I won’t be caged or killed on this expedition.”

Sherlock considered her for a moment, suspicious. “You want someone, not even me exactly, to deliver Miss Stapleton a rabbit?”

“She’s smart, she’ll know a fake. I figured if anyone can fool her it’ll be you.”

“You realize I could easily agree to this and if something does happen, you have no guarantee I’ll do it.”

Bluebell smirked. “K mentioned many things about both your website and Johns, I know you like to put around the assumption that you don’t care about anything. That you’re a ‘sociopath’. But that’s a flat lie and we both know it. If you say you’ll get Kirsty a Bluebell, it’ll be a matter of pride to do it.”

Sherlock started to scoff, but stopped and shared a look with the rabbit-shift.

“Fine. I’ll take on your ridiculous request.” He tented his fingers again. “Now, tell me everything you know about Shifters, and start from the beginning. And don’t be boring.”

\---

By the time they arrived, Bluebell had made a few very strict rules about Sherlock’s listening skills. She had the feeling he’d have ignored them much more often if John weren’t at stake. Still, she was completely drained from dealing with the detective even for a few hours, and was happy to pad along behind as he shifted gears to whatever had summoned them to St Bart’s.

‘ _Oh my god…_ ’ She thought dully as they entered the morgue. ‘ _He really does open_ both _doors to enter a room…_ ’

“Oh…” A mousy brunette seemed more surprised by Bluebell than Sherlock’s dramatic entrance. “Um, hullo.”

“Right, Molly, what have we got?” Sherlock asked, standing tall and looking around discerningly.

“Um… it’s a little… well I’ll just show you.” Molly went over to the wall of smallish metal doors and clicked one open, moving the door out of the way and pulling the slab out. It was, as is traditional, covered in a sheet. What was odd, however, was that the sheet covered several small lumps that looked in no way human. “Uh, it’s…” Molly looked up at Sherlock’s expression and closed her mouth, just carefully removing the sheet so he could see.

Instead of a human body of any kind, there were three animal carcasses lined up expertly on the tray. They all looked like small mammals, though one of them was mangled beyond recognition. There was a raccoon, slit up the belly with surgical precision that looked to be missing a few organs, though Sherlock could not be sure. Then a monkey of some kind that looked like it had a very unpleasant death, and was missing a paw. It’s eyes were also missing.

Sherlock looked over at Bluebell, who was stone faced and returned the gaze with a small shake of her head. Sherlock breathed. She’d confirmed these were not Shifters.

“What am I looking at, Molly?” Sherlock asked, distaste in his mouth. He had an idea what was happening. Well, nine ideas. But one especially stuck out.

“There’s something else you should see…” Molly pulled on her gloves and carefully moved the raccoon to show it’s back. There was a clear rectangle shaved, clean as the cut on it’s stomach. Carved into the pale pink skin and then expertly stitched back up (during life, if the marks were at all similar to human skin) was one word; SHERLOCK.

\---

Back in a cab on their way across town to the crime scene, Sherlock had his hands lined up in front of his face, eyes closed, as he went through and stored the information Molly had rattled off. Latin names of the animals there, how long they’d been dead, what had been taken, the three different states of them (clean, middle of the road, mutilated), possibilities of where they’d come from… monkeys weren’t exactly common in London apart from the zoos, none of which had any missing animals of any variety.

Bluebell was tapping her foot again, not that Sherlock took notice. There was a terrible nagging feeling that this was both linked to their ongoing case, and meant to distract them from it. Sherlock was definitely interested now, she was certain, and she also suspected he had the same inklings she did. Maybe it was a lead, maybe it was unrelated entirely… the latter seemed unlikely.

The cab pulled up to the curb and stopped, but Sherlock didn’t stir. After another minute of foot tapping after paying the driver, Bluebell finally scowled and flicked him in the forehead. He jolted, coming back to the present, then glared at her. She reacted by pointing to the abandoned storefront they were sent to by Lestrade.

Without another word, Sherlock huffed and got out. He looked over the building carefully before sweeping into the alley beside it. The front was still boarded up.

Once around the back, the place was bustling with a forensics team. Lestrade stepped down off the stoop where he’d been speaking to a policewoman with a camera and looked oddly at Bluebell.

“Who’s this?”

Sherlock positively glowered. There was no missing persons case for John due to the abnormal circumstances, but he was sure his brother had informed Lestrade at least that John was abducted and that he couldn’t get involved. The fact he’d done nothing, as ordered, was telling. And it made Sherlock lose a majority of what respect he’d afforded the DI over the years.

“Consultant.” He muttered, looking around and determining he needed to get inside for anything relevant. He sidestepped Lestrade.

“Con- hold on, Sherlock.” The DI followed Sherlock inside, putting a hand up to stop Bluebell following. “You can’t bring whoever you like, you know. What sort of person do _you_ use as a consultant?”

“I’m a paranormal expert.” Bluebell announced confidently, chin up, head tilted a little to give her tiny form an intimidating aura. “A skeptic.” She added at Lestrade’s wrinkling of his brow. “Now are you going to allow me to do my job, or do I have to go over your head? After the myriad of regulations you toss aside for your other consultant, it would not be hard.”

“Ah, bugger me.” Lestrade put his forehead in his hand. She used the opportunity to duck him and join Sherlock as he snapped on his gloves and handed her a pair.

“Paranormal, is it?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Look at this.” Bluebell gestured around at the site. It looked like a movie set, with all the ritualistic paraphernalia. In the middle of it all was a red pentagram, circled and surrounded by symbols and half-burnt candles. She pulled on her gloves and went directly there, ignoring the skulls of everything from people to birds, the other writing in several languages including English, and the splashes of what looked like dry blood everywhere. There were outlines where the three animals had been found.

Kneeling just inside the circle without touching any of it, she put a finger to the red paint and scratched a little off with her finger. Underneath was a line in black. “Mmhm.”

Sherlock crouched next to her, eyes flicking back at where Lestrade was ushering the crew out and looking rather haggard. He looked to what Bluebell was doing. “Well?”

“The animals in the morgue may have been just that, but Shifters were certainly here, recently.” She mumbled under her breath. Sherlock watched curiously as her eyes lost focus and glazed over, and she seemed to be speaking without making noise. After a few moments of inaction, Sherlock stood and began to inspect the other artifacts in the room.

“C’mon Sherlock. Who the hell is she really? Are you just dragging someone in here to make a point?” Lestrade came over as Sherlock finished with a skull.

“A point, Inspector?” Sherlock put the bones down and stood tall, looking down his nose at Lestrade.

“Sherlock, listen…” The DI sighed, shifting weight from one leg to the other. “I can’t talk about it, you know that. I’m sorry. I miss him too.”

Sherlock’s nose crinkled and his lips curdled under it. “Don’t you _dare_ …” He began to hiss, jabbing a finger at Lestrade. The older man looked taken aback. Then Bluebell gave Sherlock’s shoulder a tap, palm clapping on his coat. He turned to her, spinning on his heel with a rage bubbling in his chest. She didn’t flinch away from him.

“Come on. I’m done, I have a lot to tell you.”

“Fine.” Sherlock huffed, pulling off his gloves. He’d been killing time, mostly. He’d gotten what he could already.

“I need what you have, then.” Lestrade said in an even tone, sloughing off Sherlock’s threat. “Miss…”

“LeCoup.”

“Miss LeCoup. If you’re a consultant, then I’m consulting you.”

Bluebell lifted her brow, then turned and removed her gloves. She tossed them into a bin near the door, then folded her arms behind herself and faced out into the room. “Everything in this room, including the carcasses you found, are inconsequential… except the circle.”

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock watched her critically. She continued. “However many people were involved-”

“Seven.” Sherlock interjected.

“Seven. Fine. Of those seven, only one knew what they were doing. Or at least, weren’t mucking about randomly. The rest of the room is gibberish and things made to _look_ intimidating and insane. As the others fooled around, likely with minimal instruction from the leader, they were in the process of making this.” She indicated the circle. “It was sketched in a particular kind of ink, then covered over to hide its legitimacy as a ritual. Which, by the way, was never performed.”

“Why? Why set it all up and then not do it? We didn’t get the tip until it’d been abandoned at least a few hours.” Lestrade asked, seemingly sinking into Bluebell’s credentials.

She paused before replying, Sherlock picked up on it as her not sharing the real answer. “Maybe they came to their senses. Magic isn’t real, Detective Inspector.” She looked him dead in the eye as if to dare him to challenge her. “In any case, whoever lead this group was versed in a very old, Celtic-originating folklore. There aren’t many copies I know of, for the books they’d have learned this from.” She turned to Sherlock and held out her hand. He lowered his brow but handed her his flipbook. She pulled the small pencil out and scribbled down a title, then ripped out the page and handed it to Lestrade before returning the paper to it’s owner.

“What language is this?” Lestrade turned the paper as if he would be able to read it upside-down.

“It’s Runic. Ask the curator at a Historical Society, maybe they can help you find any copies floating around England.” Bluebell replied, before shooting Sherlock a pressing look.

“Right…” Lestrade barely started to say.

“We’re off then.” Sherlock announced with a sweeping gesture, depositing his own gloves in the bin on his way out the door. Bluebell was closely in tow.

“Wait!”

They’d gotten very nearly to the main road when Lestrade jogged out after them. Sherlock turned, hands in his pockets. He gave the DI a sour look.

“Listen, I… just come ‘ere a second.” Lestrade sighed, moving past them to his car. The lights were still flashing about. “I meant to do this earlier, but your brother…” Lestrade trailed off, smart enough to avoid another outburst. Sherlock stalked up as Lestrade pulled a clear plastic square from his back seat and straightened up. “Here.”

Sherlock hesitated a second before reaching out to take the evidence bag. Carefully, he pulled open the ziplock and pulled out a carefully folded coat. He let the bag fall where it may, not looking away from the black Haversack… he breathed carefully, as if moving air could disintegrate the fabric. He adjusted his grip so he was holding the coat around it’s waist, letting the arms unfurl. It was certainly genuine, not a ploy courtesy of his conniving brother.

“Yeah, uh…” Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Like I said, meant to give it over earlier, but the elder Holmes indicated it shouldn’t be given unless you complied with certain… restrictions. It’s not… I know you expect more from me…”

“Lestrade.” Sherlock said, voice an octave low and reverberating the air.

Bluebell watched carefully, staying out of the way, as Lestrade let his arm fall back to his side and looked at Sherlock with remorse.

“Thank you.”

Lestrade stared an almost embarrassingly long time in disbelief, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. If there’s… there’s anything I _can_ do… send a text, yeah?”

Sherlock finally looked up, folding the Haversack over one arm and tucking it close to his person. “Yes.” He turned on his heel and walked away, Bluebell following a foot or so behind.

“I’ll look into this book!” Lestrade called after them. Bluebell lifted an arm in acknowledgement, not turning around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who chose to love themselves and not roll the trigger dice.
> 
> -Lestrade texts Sherlock about a case  
> -Sherlock convinces Bluebell to come with him to find John  
> -Bluebell figures out Sherlock needs her because he hasn't a clue about Shifters  
> -Sherlock promises to get Kirsty a new rabbit when the case is over  
> -Lestrade texts Sherlock a lot and Sherlock reads between the lines to deduce his brother has been talking to the DI  
> -The two arrive back in London and go to Bart's to look into the case Lestrade told them about  
> -Molly is confused about Bluebell and points them at a crime scene with a bunch of ritualistic crap, the criminals responsible left Sherlock's name there specifically  
> -Lestrade is confused about Bluebell and she manages to sell the lie she's a paranormal consultant by the name of LeCoup  
> -Bluebell, who is like 5 feet tall, walks around a crime scene like the queen she is and figures out some stuff  
> -Sherlock manages to be a know-it-all despite the fact he's not actually the one explaining things to the police this time  
> -Bluebell explains most of the stuff on site is fake, except a spell circle that wasn't activated  
> -Lestrade accidentally hits a sore spot by mentioning John while he's not helping look but makes up for it by giving Sherlock John's coat  
> -Sherlock actually says 'thank you' what even  
> -Bluebell gives Lestrade the name of an occult book as a lead and proves she actually knows what she's doing  
>  
> 
> -Basically the entire chapter is Sherlock being dramatic (aka himself) and Bluebell shaking her head a lot but following along anyway, and annoying him but in a way he's not super used to because it's not from a place of bitterness like most of the people around him who are assholes ANDERSON. There is zero romantic chemistry. And there never will be. This fic will eventually be johnlock. Sherlock still sort of looks at her as a rabbit, which is why he's more fond of her than people.


	7. Welcome to Wisteria Gallery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets crayons. He finds an interesting use for them.

This was the third time John had awoken in captivity, and he was finding that he wasn’t overly fond of it. This time, it was in a pile of sweet-smelling hay. He perked his (human) ears, but all he could make out was the din of fluorescents. He opened his eyes to dim, dusk-like lighting on greyish tan dirt lying out in front of him where the straw ended. He sat up slowly, noticing he was in a tight white tee and khakis that reminded him of his military service. But instead of dog tags, he wore a loose steel band around his neck. Not loose enough to get off over his head, but he suspected to be properly restrictive if he shifted. He frowned deeply and resolved to never get accustomed to people changing his bloody clothes while he was unconscious. Especially since when he re-positioned himself so he could stand and found he hadn’t any pants on.

He kept his face more or less neutral as he stood up straight, the hay crunching softly under his bare feet. He was in some deep enclosure, dirt floor and a small pool of water made to look natural, like a pond. There were a couple of very large rocks off to the side but not near to the walls; concrete, curved all around, about twenty feet tall, and angled slightly obtusely. When he looked up, there were railings along the top and above was a roof that resembled what he’d seen of football stadiums.

He was in a zoo exhibit.

“Fuck.”

“Oi. Mate. There’re kids here.” A young male voice rang out from over the wall.

“Uh, sorry.” John shouted back. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. This didn’t seem like the time for proper manners. “Can we talk?” John felt stupid for asking, until he heard the answer.

“Well, yeah. But be careful about it. We dunno when they’re listenin’.”

John thinned his lips and tried to think. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Th’ ‘zookeepers’.” The voice chuckled. John got the feeling it was more optimism than true levity. Likely for the sake of others.

Putting his thumb under his collar, John pushed down the panic slowly gaining momentum in his gut. “What’s your name?”

“S’Faas, mate. We met on the plane.”

John had to think a moment, then remembered the cat. “Oh…” He cleared his throat. “Uh, the, um… cat, then?”

“Yeah. Imma Norwegian Forest cat. Yer the wolf, yeah?”

“Yeah…” John, for reasons he couldn’t understand, failed to shake the image of the fluffy cat on Gigi’s lap, like a pet. “Do…” He stopped. It wasn’t really an appropriate question, probably. Maybe it was, for Shifters. He didn’t know.

“S’alright. Ask me anything.” Faas seemed to sense the hesitance in his voice.

“Yeah, um…” John licked his lips nervously. “Do they make you act like that, or…?”

“Like what?” Faas sounded good-heartedly curious.

“Like… like a pet, I suppose.”

The young man chuckled. “Naw, that’s just me. Why? You never had yer head pat?”

John wrinkled his brow. “Wh- no. No, of course not.”

Seeming to take it in stride, Faas’ voice smiled in his reply. “You should try it sometime, with somebody ya trust. Feels real nice, just pleasant, ya know?”

“No, I really don’t…” John answered in a sort of mumble. There was a lull, and John thought it would be pertinent to try and get some actually helpful information, if he could. “Hey, Faas… you mentioned others are in here. How do you know? And can they not speak?”

John nearly jumped when a near cacophony of wild noises echoed throughout the room. Underneath the torrent of animal cries was Faas’ laugh, clear and friendly.

“What’s that tell ya?”

John sighed. “We may well be the only two in here not shifted.”

“Right in one. As far as how many…”

This time, there was a few seconds pause between each cry. The belt of some kind of sheep or ram, three or four cat-like yowls and roars in a row, a grand howl that made John’s skin roll over itself and invited him to shift and join in, a sort of whirring he had no idea how to identify, a high-pitched chattering, a warbling belt, a yelping cackle, an ear-piercing caw, an oddly human-esk cry and then just some digging scratch. John felt he could count that as about 15-16 Shifters, including himself and Faas.

“Ok…” He took a few deep breaths to shake off the welcoming tingle that came from another wolf’s howl. He had no intention of shifting if he could help it. “Do you know  _ why _ we’re the only ones not shifted? I know they can force us with the frequency they were testing at Baskerville.”

“Hm.” Faas seemed to be new to that information. “Never done that ta me. They’ve used electric shocks, though. Naw, I think they wanna talk to ya… and as fer me…” 

There was a loud bang, and a clattering and whirring that sounded to John like the ambulance door at the surgery opening. Faas fell silent, and John felt his neck hair stand on end. He moved toward the noise, until he was up against the wall. He highly doubted it would actually help him, but he knew he couldn’t easily be seen even if someone were to go up to the railing and look down. They’d have to go around, and that would give John a chance to see who he was working with and possibly make some sort of play to get out of the pit they’d stuck him in.

The whirring ended with a crank.

“Hi there, Johnny-boy!” A familiar Irish voice rang out lyrically. John felt his blood freeze in his veins. “We must stop meeting this way.”

\---

Moriarty didn’t move around the rail to give John a chance to see him coming, he opened a steel door hidden past one of the overlarge rocks in his enclosure and waltzed in with a little skip. There were no guards, and no threat of a sniper. They both knew it wasn’t needed. John understood his situation.

“You know, you’re a lucky boy. Not only did you give me a proper way to get your owner’s attention, you checked a box on a fairly lucrative list. ‘Warrah’. Sherlock’s interest in you explained, finally.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Even if he didn’t strictly realize, he seems to have a sense about these things.”

“Did you really come all the way here to obsess about Sherlock? What, have the minions you surround yourself with tired of hearing about it already?”

“Jealousy doesn’t look as nice on you as that collar.” Moriarty rolled back and forth on his feet. “No, I am here as a courtesy. I’m afraid you can’t be allowed to see your dear detective again. And once you’re sold, not even he will find you. So…” He nearly sang the last word. “I thought I’d let you do him a little doodle, he does so love to dance around where you’re involved.”

John watched closely as he reached into his immaculately tailored suit, though if it were a gun he’d have almost no chance at defending himself. But the consulting criminal pulled out, instead, a notepad with a cartoon duck on the cover and a new box of 64 crayons. He tossed them halfway to John, where they landed with an underwhelming puff in the dirt. A little dust rose, but nothing more.

“I’d restrict what you include, but do you have any clue whatsoever to share? Doubtful.”

“You want me… to color Sherlock a picture.” John adjusted his weight from both legs to just his left. 

Moriarty let his face sour and his lip jut out. “Honestly, how  _ does _ he put up with your achingly slow brain.  _ Every. Day. _ ” He hissed. His eyes went blacker though his pupils were narrowing, and he took a step forwards. Though he oozed wrath, John felt steady. Conflict, he could handle.

A clack of shoes on cement, (which John had heard half a minute before begin to approach but ignored,) grew loud enough apparently that Moriarty could hear. He stopped in his tracks and his face returned to neutral. Of course, John knew from the incident at the pool that Moriarty was not a Shifter, he’d been near enough to smell if he was. No wonder he’d heard it first.

“Lucky, lucky.” The villainous Irishman whispered, taking the last couple of steps up to John and patting his cheek with an open palm. John held back a shiver, somehow the gentler contact was worse than the slap he’d been anticipating.

Then with a click of heels, Moriarty turned away with a “Ta!” tossed backward at John and was gone through the concealed door. John let out his breath, then listened carefully.

\---

Between listening to Moriarty’s conversation with a man who seemed to be both a client and the proprietor of wherever they were and staring at the paper pad in his lap, John riddled his brain for some idea, some signal he could send to Sherlock that Moriarty wouldn’t decipher. He’d paced a bit, tried to get a vantage point on something, anything, outside of his pit. After a few circles around, he gave up and sat himself down to lean against the wall with the box of crayons and pad of paper.

He’d thought about leaving a message in grooves with his nail, then writing around it in the wax… then immediately dismissed it. Too obvious. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. What in the hell could he get past a mad genius?

Just as he was considering if Sherlock and he shared any ‘inside jokes’, there was a door opening nearby. His eyes shot over to the door in his pit, but it was unchanged. He perked his ears and heard someone moving over dirt and grass, backing away, then the continuation of chatter from Moriarty’s client.

“Yes, I can see why he’s so interested. Shame about it’s shift… barely more than a housecat.”

“Yes.” John could practically hear Moriarty checking his manicure from the tone that percolated out of him. “Rich people especially seem to have such eccentric tastes.”

“That’s not very nice.” John looked up in alarm, realizing the criminals must be in Faas’ enclosure with him as the young man spoke. He did a fair job of hiding his nerves, but John could still hear him backing up slowly. “I happen ta like my shift.”

“I don’t remember saying ‘speak’.” Moriarty’s voice frowned. John stood up, the hair on his neck following suit.

There was a crackle in the air and Faas yelled in pain, John could hear him fall on the grass.

“Oi!” John shouted, scrambling back to try to see though he knew it was in vain. He clutched the box of crayons tightly.

“Upstart. For the client who requested him; a boon. Less dull, I think he said.” The nameless man spoke casually. Apparently he’d decided Faas was panting too loud or some other nonsense, because there was another crackle and another scream.

“Stop!” John nearly cracked his voice for how he was straining it. He could barely believe he was the only one making a ruckus, but then again… He was new. Likely the others had been shown their place. He huffed, pacing, his rage building. The third shock was his last straw, he plucked a handful of crayons from the box and hurled them as hard as he could towards the noises. Most clattered on what he figured was sidewalk, but apparently one managed to bean the proprietor somewhere on his person. From the angle, likely his head.

Moriarty cackled in delight, but the other man didn’t seem amused in the least.

“Too much of a coward for a fair fight?” John called, praying he’d be the obvious target and wasn’t just making things worse for Faas.

“Jim!” The man seemed to be asking permission.

“No permanent marks.” Moriarty answered through giggles.

John let out his breath, letting himself get a smirk on his face. He dropped the box of remaining crayons and stayed alert. He had no machinations of victory, not in the upcoming fight… but he’d done what he’d needed to.

A large man in a pinstripe suit, face dark with unbridled fury, stormed through the door into John’s enclosure. He leveled what looked like a modified cattle prod around like a child with a wooden sword. John stood his ground. The weapon had reach, but the look of this fellow didn’t say ‘combat experience’. It rather told John he was indeed a coward, who terrorized those without the ability to defend themselves.

The blood pumped through John’s body, finally there was something he could do, something in this abysmal, helpless situation…

The first jab was wide and sloppy, easy to avoid, and John moved around him with a subset of his attention on his surroundings and especially the door. Unfortunately, it seemed whoever designed the place wasn’t an idiot, and it had closed behind his assailant. 

Another jab, followed up by a swing and an exclamation of frustration. John was done watching for any sort of tactics. On the next swing, John dodged to the outside and lunged forwards, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting. He simultaneously disarmed the proprietor and wound his arm around his back, forcing him into a lock on his knees. He spouted curses, spitting as he did so, and John learned several terms for shifters he hadn’t known previously but was sure he’d never use.

A loud whistle brought John’s attention abruptly to the top of his enclosure, there Moriarty was leaning leisurely on the railing. Two men shadowed him, aiming rifles at John. 

“Entertaining as this is, I’ve better things to do Johnny.”

John breathed carefully in and out, not moving. He locked eyes with Moriarty, neither man giving ground.

“Very good.” Moriarty grinned at him, then flicked a finger to his left. The man on that side fired. John had braced himself, but all he felt was something warm hit his cheek and the tug as the man in his control slumped. He let go and looked down. He didn’t have to be a doctor to know the proprietor was dead.

“Why…” John took two steps back.

Every hair on John’s body stood on end half a second before the pitch hit his ears. He grabbed at them and doubled over. He thought he was yelling but couldn’t be sure. The familiar panic overtook him, and a sweeping sense of dread as his pores sprouted thick fur and his fingers shortened. ‘ _ No _ ’ John thought, the shift taking him, grinding his bones as it only did when it was forced. ‘ _ God please no, he’ll never trust me again _ ’ John’s yelling turned to a yowling, a whimpering cry. He pawed desperately at the dirt, not noticing he was making a thick mud from the dribble of blood seeping from the dead man beside him. ‘ _ Sherlock, please _ ’

Somewhere, a click went off and something pricked into his pelt, and immediately pain rocked his body. He flailed about, mouth frothing, then just as everything went black…

“Night, Johnny Boy. Don’t forget to write!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that the crayons bit is an homage to another Johnlock fic I read, and loved. I don't think that counts as stealing? I mean, Moriarty orders John be given crayons in it, but what he does with them and the circumstances are all very different.
> 
> BTW the fic is Forever by grannysknitting, go check it out, I enjoyed it a lot.
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7295425/1/Forever


	8. The Second Plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally makes it home, albeit briefly. Mrs Hudson recounts something from her past. Bluebell is helpful. Mycroft gets pissy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's hoping two chapters today makes up for the unplanned hiatus. Issues with my doggo were more pressing.

“...so likely either they wanted to lure Neighbors there and sort of make it a hot spot of unused potential, magically speaking, or whoever it was wanted to try using magic but couldn’t.”

“What exactly constitutes whether one can or cannot use ‘magic’?”

“Well typically…” Bluebell was explaining the real reason the circle at the crime scene was unused as Sherlock unlocked Baker Street and swung open the door. He didn’t hold it open for her, but he fought the urge to slam it in her face and prevent an interloper to follow him in the place John should be. “... in order to tap into the forces necessary to bend physics, which is all magic is, you need to be connected enough to the fae to see them. Humans-”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson rushed out towards him from her flat at the back of the front hall. “You were out of hospital two days ago, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you!”

“Mrs Hudson. This is Miss LeCoup.”

“Lovely to meet you, dear.” Mrs Hudson chimed shortly, taking Bluebell’s hand in two of hers. “Sherlock.” She turned her attention right back at her tenant as she blocked his way up the stairs. He huffed, annoyed.

“I am on a case, Mrs Hudson, if you’d excuse me.” He said dismissively.

“Young man.” Mrs Hudson replied, cross at him. “I have been trying to reach you! I might have something that can lead you to John.”

Sherlock lost his annoyed stance instantly, looking down at his landlady in alarm.

Now she knew she had his attention, the older woman smiled warmly at Bluebell and pulled her gently into her kitchen. “Now, dear, you look as if you haven’t eaten in days. You’re not like Sherlock, I can tell. He seems to think he can sustain himself on the air alone.” She joked lightly, sitting Bluebell at the table while she put on the tea and got out a dish of bread and jam.

“Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock said sternly from the doorway, where he’d stopped after following them there. He peeled off his gloves and slapped the leather together before slipping them in his pocket.

“My, is that what I think it is?” Mrs Hudson came up, finally, to Sherlock. But she put a hand on John’s coat in his arms, and the other to her mouth. “Dear… Poor John.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned and he pulled his arm back out of her reach. “Mrs. Hudson.” He said, a few notes lower than usual. “You were saying about a lead?”

“Ah, yes!” She replied, clapping her hands together. “Come have a cuppa and I’ll tell you. I’d wager you haven’t had a decent nosh since you left hospital.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, but bit back a snide remark. “Fine. Give me a moment.” He turned and left the kitchen, and a moment later the women heard him taking the stairs two at a time.

Bluebell accepted her teacup with an amused smile as Mrs Hudson put out the tea and a few things to snack on. The older woman didn’t look like much, but she wasn’t at all put off by her eccentric tenant. In fact, she’d watched him go with matronly affection on her face. Then she turned and clapped again.

“So, what am I to call you?” She asked, her expression extending her laugh lines.

“Um. Miss LeCoup is fine.”

Mrs Hudson waved that off with a well-intentioned scoff. “There’s no need for that here, dear. I’d prefer to call you by your real name, if that’s alright. Less awkward.”

Bluebell wrinkled her brow. “Why would you think…?”

Mrs Hudson winked. “You don’t live with Sherlock Holmes for any amount of time without learning to notice a few things.”

“Ah…” Bluebell knew she had no reason to trust this woman, or Sherlock himself for that matter really… but her intuition gave off a warm feeling here with them, so she decided to anyway. “Actually… it sounds ridiculous, I know, but it would be nice to be called Bluebell…”

Mrs Hudson didn’t skip a beat, nor did she look at all confused. “Bluebell is a lovely name.”

The rabbit-shift took up her cup and felt the warmth through the ceramic just as real as the tenderness from this odd woman. “Someone very special gave it to me.”

“I can see that.” Mrs Hudson put a hand on Bluebell’s shoulder before she looked up to watch Sherlock come back into the cozy space. He’d been much more silent on his way back down, apparently, and no longer had either his nor John’s coat. He allowed himself to be ushered into the remaining kitchen chair, the older woman standing behind him like a doting hen.

“Here, are you satisfied now?” Sherlock moped as he poured himself a cuppa and sloppily spread some jam on a bagel.

“It’s a start, dear.” Mrs Hudson left him to it, turning to open a kitchen drawer and pull out a photo album. Bluebell watched Sherlock while her back was turned, thinking he’d try to throw away his food, or hide it somehow… because she’d noticed in a lot of ways, he acted like a child. But he either thought better of it or didn’t feel he could fool his landlady, because he actually ate about half his bagel before she brought the album to the table and put it beside his plate.

“If this is about your vacation…” He started. Bluebell couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Have you ever seen anyone seek out a photo album if they didn’t think it was about them?” Mrs Hudson tsked.

Bluebell sipped her tea and nodded, impressed. Hidden in plain sight, it seemed. “So what is it actually?”

“Oh, pictures, mostly.” Mrs Hudson chuckled, leaning over and flipping it open as Sherlock finished his food. “But some of them are of people you might want to know.”

Bluebell looked carefully at them, though they were upside down. The first page was one photo, nearly larger than the page, with 25th December of the previous year printed in neat scrawl in the top corner. It was half candid, a photo of a blond man in a terrible seasonal jumper who sat on the arm of a leather armchair with a smile and a glass of wine. He was looking at the camera with his arms around Mrs Hudson in a handsome purple dress. And in the background, just in front of the window where one could see snow falling outside, was Sherlock. His back was three quarters turned, and he was playing a violin. The tiniest bit of one eye could be seen among his dark curls, closed in the rhythm of the music.

Bluebell stifled a giggle, but instantly regretted it… Sherlock had been staring, but now he tried to steel his face. The faintest rose tint could be seen in his cheeks, though.

“Is that John?” Bluebell kept her voice casual, but she knew with certainty it was.

“Yes…” Mrs Hudson sighed, both fond and sad. “Those’re my boys. Greg was nice enough to take it for us, the dear.” She squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t think you’ve seen this one before. You didn’t notice us take it.”

“I was thinking.” Sherlock mumbled in his defense, draining his teacup and pushing the china away from himself. He pulled the album closer and flipped to the next page. It didn’t help, there were more shots of him and of John, and of the two of them together. Most were candid, and on the second page was one of John pulling an afgan over Sherlock’s curled, sleeping form on the couch. The caption read _Finally solved it. Now he can rest._ There was no way either of them knew it was taken.

“Oh, that was the Geek Interpreter case.” Mrs Hudson cooed. “You hadn’t slept in more than a full week that time. John wasn’t much better off, but he refused to crash until after he was sure you were under.”

Sherlock slammed the book closed, his hand pressed to the cover. He didn’t make eye contact. “Where is the relevant data?” He asked, voice low and deep.

“Sherlock…” Mrs Hudson sighed. She was obviously worried, but she didn’t push. He allowed her to move his hand out of the way and opened it up to the last two thirds of pages. Here were older photos, a few sun-bleached business cards, and an old preserved feather. “I made some friends overseas.” She explained shortly. Bluebell felt out of the loop after the knowing nod from Sherlock. “One of them, who was close to my husband, was into some very weird things. He’s usually jumping around too much to find, but he was always fond of me.” Her words were honeyed by the sort of nostalgia Bluebell was too young to understand. It was unclear what sort of ‘fondness’ she was speaking of. “I could always reach out easily when I needed a favor.” She took out one of the cards and pressed it into Sherlock’s hand. “I have a feeling whatever political nonsense is keeping your brother from telling you things is exactly the sort of thing he can help you uncover.” She hesitated, but pulled the feather out as well. “You’ll need to show him this, he won’t recognise you otherwise.”

Once the feather was out of the plastic, Bluebell jerked her head back. It reeked of Shifters, moreso than if she had her nose in one. Sherlock noticed but ignored it.

Standing, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his landlady’s crown, eliciting a fond giggle. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

She patted his arm and looked up at him. “You bring our boy home.”

Sherlock’s face warmed several degrees and he put his hand on hers. “Count on it.”

“And you’d better come with him. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“When have you known me to be stupid?”

Mrs Hudson just patted his hand and chuckled, and his smile slipped into a speculating frown.

Bluebell laughed, and she stood as well. “That’s plenty to be going on, I think.” She gestured towards the door. “Thank you for the tea. You’re a lovely woman.”

Mrs Hudson let Sherlock go, out of sight and back up the stairs, then turned to take Bluebell’s hand again. “My, you certainly have a silver tongue. Best keep that for folk your own age.” She joked.

Bluebell kissed her on the cheek and moved past her. “I’ll try to remember that, if I end up having the time.” She said, feeling hopeful and energised as she turned the corner and started up the stairs. She didn’t make it up even three.

“I assume you don’t have a passport.” Sherlock said as he wound his scarf around his neck and descended the stairs. He didn’t pause to let her back up, and she was lucky she had rabbit-like reflexes or he’d have barrelled her over.

“No.” She huffed, annoyed, as she swung backwards by the railing and out of the way.

He turned to face her as he buttoned up. “Good. Less to be rid of.”

She scrutinized him as he turned again to bid Mrs Hudson farewell and tell her they’d be gone a long while, and to not let the body parts in the fridge spoil. “Call Molly to pick them up if I’m not back by the 13th.” He finished, earning a tsk and a little swat before smiling and kissing her on the cheek.

“Why would I need to be rid of identification?” Bluebell asked, following him as he swept from the flat. She made sure the door was closed behind her as he hailed a cab.

“It would make it much harder for us to get overseas, is why.” Sherlock said smugly as he opened the black cab door and climbed in.

Bluebell huffed, wrestling with either going forward blind or giving him the satisfaction of asking for clarification as she climbed in after.

\---

Bluebell was made to feel a little better as she sunk into her seat across from Sherlock, barely ruffled while the detective was flushed and catching his breath. Being a rabbit-shift had advantages.

She looked over the aisle past the window as they gained momentum. They were the only two in the small private jet apart from the pilot, co-pilot, and one steward. The path to get them there was winding, confusing, and Bluebell was certain she couldn’t replicate it if pressed. She wasn’t even sure if they were leaving from London.

After meeting several of Sherlock’s contacts, she honestly felt she knew less about him. The only thing she was sure of from the experience was he was an incredible actor, and only so far as when he knew his audience was looking. As soon as they turned, his face went back to neutral, or if the moment called for it, irked.

“So…” She began. There was something peculiar that stuck out to her. “Did you learn how to seem like you care from John, or did he open up the part of you that actually does?”

Sherlock looked her in the eye, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

“How you interact with people… if you really don’t respect them, you just play a facade. But with people like K, or those you hold some regard for like that homeless woman we spoke with… you tap into something to portray what you want to. I don’t think that’s something you’ve always been able to do. It’s more believable, sure, but it’s… well, it looks as if you’re wearing a costume that wasn’t made for you, like it doesn’t fit you quite right.” Bluebell tried to read him, but she’d found when she did she got less than if she was more casual. “If you’d been doing it all along, you’d be more adept at it.”

“Do you find you’re feeling a bit put off, working this case with me?” Sherlock asked, regarding her.

“Well now I get to ask you what you mean.” Bluebell crossed her legs and sat back, getting comfortable. She felt awfully like she needed a shower, even if she’d kept admirable pace. Maybe this fancy jet had one. Who knows.

Sherlock tented his fingers and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It made him look shrewd, which Bluebell was entirely sure was the point. “You’ve barely said anything, at least anything of importance, since we began. You think of yourself as an intelligent woman, yet you’re constantly having to ask for clarification. Does that bother you? Is that what these ‘deductions’ are about?”

Bluebell’s mouth curled on one side, and she raised a hand to stifle a snicker. Since his lips were hidden behind his hands, only the lines on Sherlock’s face gave away his deepening frown. “Oh, no. I have no illusions that I’m on any of the same levels as Sherlock Holmes. I am, in some fields, much more intelligent than you.” She spoke quickly, as he started to jump on that. “Not in any way you’d find important. Social intelligence, emotional intelligence. Those sorts of things. I’m smart enough to follow your train of thought, and smart enough to know I couldn’t figure out the same sorts of problems alone. I’m not trying to compete, Mr Holmes. But without the reliable Dr Watson as a barometer, I have to look between the lines of your less developed senses myself. K often spoke of you, as you know, and that looking at you on John’s blog, and looking at you on your own… were vastly different experiences.”

Sherlock stayed stock still, apparently thinking, for a few minutes. At least until they were in the air, and the vast unpleasantness of popping ears was over with. Bluebell had stopped paying attention. She wasn’t going to push.

“I suppose you’ll have to ask him when we find him.”

Bluebell looked up from scratching behind her ear. It had been ages since she’d shifted and it was very uncomfortable. “Will I…”

“Yes, well, that is why you’re here, is it not? To find John. You’re not just a sniffer dog.”

“No…” Bluebell sat up straight. “I certainly am not. And I’m not here to find John, not entirely. I’m here to find kidnapped Shifters. There’s been an enormous spike in abductions in our community over the last ten or so years. But as you’ve said, I can’t find them on my own. You can.”

Sherlock and Bluebell had a sort of staring contest. Finally, he blinked. “Can I observe?”

She narrowed her eyes and her nose twitched. She had an awful idea what he meant. “Observe…?”

“Your change, obviously.”

“I don’t care how you know I want to shift. I will tell you, it’s extremely rude unless you’re another Shifter, or immediate family.”

“Well. By now you should know I don’t much care about what is or is not proper. Is that a ‘no’?”

Bluebell regarded him. She found it easy enough to not be offended by him, like an adult to a child who didn’t know any better. Of course, at least on some level he did… but on many others… “Do you really need to...”

Sherlock gave her what she referred to as his ‘science’ look. “I’m sure I’ll see it at some point during this case, and I’d rather be able to observe it in a controlled environment, up close. To collect accurate data.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking, Mr Holmes. This process is very intimate, it’ll leave me extremely vulnerable. You of all people should understand the desire to keep your walls up.”

There was a long pause, which Bluebell suspected was processing of data Sherlock rarely indulged in letting go through his mind. His barriers were likely set a very long time ago, and maintained as a second nature at this point. They were more fragile right now, but still… not something he’d likely want to comment on.

“What do you want?”

Bluebell wrinkled her brow. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t told me ‘no’ outright, though you’d rather do so. I know you haven’t any qualms about setting boundaries, at least with me, which leads me to believe you’d agree to some sort of exchange. I’ve already given you my word on your only request thus far. What else do you want, that I be given leave to observe your shift?”

“What do I…” Bluebell thought briefly, she really didn’t know. The only reason she hadn’t shut him down was she wasn’t entirely against letting him see. Though she’d be nude to start, she doubt she had to worry about Sherlock Holmes staring or making her feel judged about it. “Why don’t you guess?”

“I don’t guess.” He replied shortly.

“Yeah, you do.” Bluebell smirked. “But alright, then… suggest something.”

He looked less than thrilled. “You’re perfectly aware this isn’t my _area_.”

“Try.”

Sherlock’s lips twinged, but he tented his fingers and stared, eyes locked on but slightly out of focus. She had to admit, it was both intimidating and impressive to watch him work on something he didn’t immediately understand. “You’re put off by the prospect of being vulnerable, the most logical solution is to equalize the situation. I doubt something as crass as nudity would solve it…”

“ _God_ no.”

“... and physical vulnerability in the way of danger seems unwise.”

“True.”

“So… _emotional_ then.” His eyes focused and he looked at her. “What would leave me emotionally vulnerable to you?”

“Um. Tell me a secret.” He narrowed his eyes, looking at her like a frivolous child. “I mean, a personal secret. Something you don’t like other people to know. I’ll let you see this part of me, if you do something similar.”

Sherlock thinned his lips, but didn’t disagree. He shut his eyes, and Bluebell sat quietly for a few minutes.

When it became apparent whatever Sherlock was doing would take a while, she undid her safety belt and stood, stretching, and moved to the back of the plane to find the shower.

\---

“Redbeard.”

Bluebell was scrubbing her hair dry as she walked back into the main cabin in a robe. Sherlock hadn’t moved, but he said one word to her in greeting. She stopped and let the towel come down to rest on her shoulders.

“Sorry?”

“That’s my trade-off. Redbeard.”

“Oookay.” Bluebell stepped forward. “Are you maybe going to… elaborate on that?”

Sherlock looked at her with a frown. “Not for one shift.”

Again, Bluebell had no reason to trust that he was telling her… anything, really. But she felt in her gut he was, and something very important at that. “Alright then. ‘Redbeard’. I’ll keep it to myself.”

Sherlock just nodded, keeping his gaze on her. It wasn’t one of anticipation or expectation, just… looking her in the eye, blinking occasionally. She looked right back, feeling a pull in her gut of deep sadness. The way he looked now, she was _sure_ he was telling her something important. He looked raw. Open.

“Alright.” She put the towel over the back of one of the empty seats, then moved to the open part of the aisle, where she had the most space. She undid the belt on her robe, but hesitated. Not many people had seen her naked, at least not with permission. She’d been made to shift and shed many times against her will, left shaking and confused on a cold, laboratory floor. She began to regret her agreement, but he’d put up his end…

“Bluebell.” Sherlock said softly, standing and approaching her. “You can say no.” He stopped about two feet back and folded his arms behind his back.

She looked up at him. He was very different, right after accessing whatever ‘Redbeard’ was. She shook her head. “I need to shift, it’s very uncomfortable to go this long without. I couldn’t shift after leaving Baskerville. Not around K.”

She took a deep breath and held it, putting the belt next to the towel, then slipping off her robe and setting it there as well. She let out the breath slowly and let herself look up. Sherlock was meeting her gaze, his eyes simply curious. They did not roam. She let an awkward smile play on her face, then took another breath and concentrated.

It felt right, sinking down and growing warm… her ears, especially. Never once in her life did Bluebell feel quite right with human’s ears.

When she was finished, Bluebell sat up on her haunches so she could see up far enough, her fur midway through it’s seasonal change from white to brown.

Sherlock crouched to look at her more carefully. “Extraordinary. Almost no distinguishing traits to set you apart from any natural rabbit.”

Bluebell twitched her nose and went down on all fours, scratching behind her ear with her rear paw.

Sherlock stood, though it looked as if he used self-restraint (who knew he had any) to keep his hands to himself. “We’ll be in the air about eleven more hours, I suggest you’re human when we land. Until then.” Sherlock sat back down in his seat and pulled out a laptop he’d gotten off one of his contacts. When he looked up again, he couldn’t see the rabbit-shift anymore.

\---

Mycroft Holmes did not often lose his cool demeanor, though there were a select few who could make him do exactly that more often than not. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he hung up his phone and leaned forward on his desk supported by his arms. “It would seem…” He informed his assistant. “... no one is capable of locating Sherlock Holmes. Not when he’d rather be hidden.”

“Sir?”

“Overly sentimental…” Mycroft mumbled before standing up and flipping open another file on top of several he’d been perusing. He’d still been engaged with sorting out the mess that had become of Baskerville. “Find me something on this woman with him…”

“Kirstine Marie Bellefeuille, born 1984 at Regina General. Canadian. She went missing 16 years ago from her hometown, no leads, case went cold. There is no information on her between then and now.” The shrewd brunette handed over the rather sparse file, which included school transcripts, family members, driving record, and a handful of her essays. Nothing special peeked out. She often dyed her hair. That was the most unique thing about her, other than her unsolved disappearance.

“Declared dead in 2007. You’re certain?”

“Within reason.”

Mycroft looked at the two files, one a surveillance report from 48 hours prior, and compared them. The markers that the woman his people had photographed on the train, in a cab, in 221B… with Sherlock… was the same Canadian girl who’d been legally dead for ten years were striking.

“Very well.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the mess on his desk his brother had made for him. Again. “Look further into this, and _find Sherlock Holmes._ ” He practically seethed. His assistant made her way out quickly, though she made it look casual all the same.

This unnatural attachment to his live-in army doctor was becoming more of an issue than it was worth… Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew his brother was on a dangerous path when John Watson crossed it, but there must have been better men… he should not have allowed a therianthrope of all people to live with Sherlock. One way or another, those sort complicated things. It shouldn’t have mattered Watson was aggressively denying his innate abilities or that he had no real ties to the underground community.

Mycroft slumped into his chair in as dignified a way as could still be labeled ‘slumping’ and pushed aside Miss Grant’s file. He stared disapprovingly at the colorless photo held by a paperclip to the file underneath. He’d been unable to locate John Watson while he’d kept his brother at bay, and now he was out of time. Unless he acted more efficiently, this search was liable to get his baby brother killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adopting s3 lore that Redbeard is a beautiful red Irish Setter. FIGHT ME.


	9. The Speckled Collar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a lot of chances to try to communicate with Sherlock. Then he learns more about how Shifters and regular humans interact. Mycroft is still super pissy.

_**Sherlock. I’ve been told  I’ll never see you again. I know that you’ll find me, but in case I don’t survive to meet you… I have something to say. It’s been a long time coming. I should have told you about me a long time ago, and I’m sorry my failure to do so compromised your work. I didn’t want**_  

John sighed and crumpled another paper off the pad, throwing it into the pond. He’d been able to shed once he woke up and get his clothes back on.  Apparently  they’d forced him to shift and tased him, but done nothing else John could find. Even the dead man had  been left  where it was, making it a bit easier for John to determine how long he’d been out.  Scrubbing the dried dirt and blood off, especially from under his nails, had proven challenging… but finally John had been able to sit with his remaining crayons (he’d thrown his black one so was writing in green) to craft a letter . He had no idea what he could tell Sherlock, Moriarty was right. He didn’t have any real clues to share. He couldn’t even figure out a way to make it obvious he’d written it himself.

He leaned his head back against the rock he had his back to and tried to think what Sherlock would do… if he got some kind of letter from Sherlock, it would likely be a string of nonsense that would take him a while to decipher… or something  insultingly  simple… either way, he’d think it was clever and it would make finding his friend much easier.

He sat up, hit with an idea. Moriarty wasn’t a Shifter, he couldn’t smell who was or wasn’t one… or what they’d had contact with. Sherlock was constantly using his nose to find clues, and now he knew what to look for...  hopefully.

Tearing out a page and folding it against the pad, his fingers remembering the pattern. Harry had always been competitive, most often by making and comparing paper planes. Seeing which could make theirs go the furthest. He’d never bested her, but he’d gotten good enough to show off at primary.

After making several practice planes, John jotted a short message and folded a better one.

“Anyone else still here?” He asked  loudly  , standing up. He  was answered by  several of the calls he’d started to recognize. He pointed himself towards the adolescent cats' call and threw the plane as straight and as hard as he could. He heard a crunch of paper and gravel, and grinned.

“Is that ‘soldier-who-got-shot’?”

John was a bit surprised to hear the young voice of Mads. He hadn’t thought anyone else was human in here. “Yeah, Captain Watson. I’ve been out a while. What’s happened?”

“They took Faas outside. They talked a lot.”

John could hear her unfolding the paper, and breathed out when he realized she was reading it. “How are you… shedded?”

Mads snickered. “Human? We can shift all we want, now there aren’t people around. The zookeeper didn’t like to think of us as people so we weren’t allowed before.” More crinkling, she must have finished reading and was refolding…

“Is your sister alright? Is anyone injured?”

“Yeah… they only hurt Faas and you.”

John caught the flicker of white sailing over the rail into another enclosure. This might actually work. Moriarty was clever enough to not have cameras, which can  be hacked.

\---

“... never spoke to me again after that. Called me a witch, if you can believe it. ‘Satan’s whore’ were his exact words. Seems a shame I never learned a single spell my whole life.” Tae Yun chuckled as she finished her account involving her ex husband. She was one of the Shifters that hadn't been on the plane with them, a dalmatian pelican shift from Korea. They'd been trading stories to pass the time, now that everyone was free to shift and shed as they saw fit. The new overseer of the operation was a plain woman with sharp eyes and a large collar lined with spotted fur. John was never close enough to determine if it was animal fur or… something else. He tried not to think about it. She’d put up several complicated circles in an ink John could not compare to anything he'd ever smelled. They were dark, not quite black, and every enclosure had at least one. Then she’d been content to bugger off somewhere. They only saw her at feeding times. Of which John had exactly zero.

He suspected that's why the old proprietor’s body still lay on its front in the dirt of his exhibit. In the last week, it had begun to stink enough that John had stopped shifting at night for warmth. Any attempt on his part to bury or move it had  been met  with several guards interrupting with the cattle prods. He didn't care how long they kept him there, he wasn't eating someone.

He turned his back on the body for the fifth time that day. The carcass was an odd mix of repulsive and, to John's dismay, enticing. He'd been around plenty of cadavers both at school and in the service and he'd never had this issue. He made a face and forced himself to listen to the next story... instead of thinking about the tale about a plane crash in the mountains and what they'd done to survive.

This was Mads’ seventh story, and each one was completely contradictory. Strel added something now and again, but she kept quiet for the most part.

Once she'd finished (John hadn't  really  been listening), it was his turn. He'd always passed before.  Everyone else was sharing from their Shifter experiences and he, well… he'd spent the last twenty-odd years ignoring he was a part of it.

“No, no… nothing’s happened to me.” He defended. Not much had, at least not to the Warrah inside him. And what had…

“Doesn't have to be an action thriller, mate. Dun be like Colonel.” Faas chuckled.  The old pyrenean ibex from the plane hadn't done much but contribute to the calls when John had  been introduced  to everyone.

The cat-shift had been gone two days. He hadn't said a word about where he'd been or what happened. Only his voice, which sometimes cracked, betrayed a hint of the encounter. 

“I'll tell ya what. You share  just  one. Then we’ll leave ya be. How’s that?”

“Yeah c’mon.” Mads chimed in. “I'm bored!”

John sighed. Telling a story like this, instead of typing it out one letter at a time, was intimidating. But most of the others shared stories.  Many of them told of non-magic loved ones taking advantage of their differences or rejecting their existence . A handful brought a little cheer back with stories of acceptance and support. It made him think of Sherlock’s reaction… it was too soon to tell which sort his own story would be.

“I guess it's only fair.” John relented. Anything to distract him from the hunger pains. He moved into a more comfortable position and decided where to start. “When I was a kid, around eleven  I think  … was my first shift. It was during the summer, we went to the shore on holiday. Anyway, there were these boys a year or so older who were staying in the second cabin down from ours. They could smell it on me, even though I didn't know yet what it was. I figured it was one of those things, where you feel close to people you  just  met.

"They led me out to an outcropping and showed me what they were. They asked me to do the same. I didn't understand, exactly, but it was… instinct, I suppose, at that point.” John stopped to think. He didn't like this story. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “Even though they told me it was a special secret, I asked my sister when I got back to show me what she was. She wasn't happy with my little jab, but she got a bigger surprise when she watched her brother become a wolf cub. She got  really  cross with me, told me to turn back and never show anyone, ever again. To never talk about it. She was older, even though she isn't a Shifter, she understood the danger better than I did. I didn't take her  seriously , I thought she was envious.” John huffed at his own stupidity and ran a hand over his face.

“So me and my new mates, we went everywhere the next few days. Harry tried to keep me nearby, in the cabin or with our parents. Everyone thought she was being silly, which drove her mad.  Anyway, one afternoon we were running around in the outcropping, taking in the world in a new way . The other two got ahead of me. They were a deer of some type and an elk, so they were faster than me. I was still getting used to being on four legs, as well.

"As they rounded the edge, I saw a net loop the deer’s neck and he went down. I  was surprised  ; I stopped. They netted the elk as well, but before I could even move… there was Harry. She’d tossed my clothes at me, grabbed me back… I dunno why, but I shift- shedded. Changed back. By the time the men saw us, we were  just  two human kids, watching from the rocks. They took off quick, I don't remember much else. I couldn't believe any of it.”

John blinked. He'd been watching his memory for the first time in many years. He couldn't remember their names or what the men who took them looked like. Couldn't even remember returning to their cabin with Harry. His next vivid memory was leaving in the car a couple days later, wondering why there were no police, no posters.  And then, for the first time since it happened, he did remember something from those last two days; the parents of those two boys, a hollow look on their faces, looking out on the ocean.

Numbly , John opened his mouth and finished the tale. “Until Baskerville, I never shifted again. Not once.”

\---

“Hey…” Faas beckoned to John (he could always tell, somehow) that night, when the rest had been quiet an hour or so. “M’sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed.”

John sucked in a breath and sighed. “No. But I’m glad I… got to tell it, at least once. Makes it feel real, you know? It didn’t for so long…”

There was an amiable silence before Faas spoke again.

“If yer interested, I’d like ta tell ya mine. Something I didn’t want the girls ta hear… they should feel ok telling folk they trust, and… this tale isn’t one’a those.”

John leaned his head back on the cool cement wall, his arm propped up on one bent knee. “If you want to tell it, I will listen.”

“Thanks.” Faas’ voice portrayed a sad smile. “I have a sibling, too. Younger brother. We’re a Shifter family, so it was easier on us. We knew the rules going in.

“Leo… that’s my little brother… he’s a melanistic jaguar, though if ya asked ‘im, he’d say he was a panther…  mostly  because it irked our mother  .” Faas chuckled  nostalgically  . Then he added a sad sigh that caused dread to bubble in John’s gut.  “He was always like that, pushing buttons when he could find them, getting in people’s space… he’s a smaller,  disarmingly  handsome kid, so most found it more charming than irritating  . When he paid ya mind, you felt special.” John couldn’t help but draw the parallels with Sherlock and himself. The detective often tested John's patience. He also made John feel... He didn't finish the thought. Actually, thinking on it... John believed Sherlock didn't push buttons  maliciously . Only in retaliation or by mistake. But what was Sherlock like as a boy, he wondered. Faas snapped him back to reality as he continued.

“So it was with his partners… they were engaging enough to stop him running around with anyone who caught his eye. Those three were a little  poly  family. Neither of ‘em Shifters, they didn’ care much when they found out. Not surprising, he was so eccentric ta start.  Things went ok for a while… but there’s a reason most Shifters are in families of our own kind, or at least with alchemists and the like  . People who have no affinity for magic have a hard time being in that world. There are many dangers they can’t see or understand. Leo’s boyfriend  was cursed by  an artifact we had in our home… the seals there to protect it dun work on regular humans. He’s alive, but… it’s not good.

“And his girlfriend, she wasn’t intimidated… she loved him more than even  _I_ think  he deserved. He’s a selfish, arrogant child. She was harassed by our family, by others in the community.  Ours is a family rooted in magic, and for him ta keep seeing an outsider after his also non-magic boyfriend ended up institutionalized…" he sighed  . "...it wasn’t a fling anymore. I dun think it’s right, but you gotta know… you’re in it now. There’s no more going back to simple human life. You’ll have ta shift,  probably  you only avoided it because you’d only done it a bit as a kid, you developed not having to. A lot of Shifters who try ta live the way you’ve been end up shifting  accidentally  within a few months. Or causing havoc to their loved ones.”

John’s mouth was dry… even if Sherlock did find him, or if he escaped somehow… Baskerville was only the preamble. They couldn’t go back to how things were.

“I’m not saying all this ta scare you, or ta hurt. It’s… a friendly warning. What happened, is happening, with my brother... is not right. I don’t like ta see anything like that happen, and if you haven’t been around any of us much until now… you deserve ta know.”

John knew Sherlock didn’t have any sort of magic. He’d already been in danger since he’d learned about John. If Moriarty had him write to Sherlock, it was unlikely he’d died on the moor. Still, what sort of dangers John would have to face were a mystery even to him.

“It's ok, Faas. Thank you. Knowing something… is better than not. Right?” John mumbled, deep inside his own head.

But Sherlock coming into his life had changed everything already.  He couldn’t imagine a home that wasn’t Baker Street and Mrs Hudson tutting about and sleepless nights running through London on a case . Home was having to check if Sherlock had taken his Browning again before leaving the flat. It was sitting in a pub with Mike and ragging him about introducing him to a ‘consulting detective’. It was Mike seeing the light and thanks in his eyes instead of the frustration his words implied.

Home was a concept John had accepted when he’d stopped looking for it elsewhere, somewhere ‘normal’... when he had finally ceased dating any woman who’d have him.  He’d predicated to himself it was because living with Sherlock was too disruptive to keep up a relationship . He threw out the snide accusations that he’d been at fault for prioritizing his flatmate. Here, starving in a pit in god knows what country… he had to admit he could have dated while living with Sherlock. The detective rarely insisted on John’s company or help, he tagged along of his own accord. He could sleep when Sherlock didn’t, on a case. But he didn’t want that. He wanted to witness it, to be right in the thick of it.

That is what home is for John.

“Thanks, Faas.” John stood and brushed off his pants, moving over to the straw where he slept. “But I don’t think if I get out of here, the people in my life will heed your advice. I’m not even certain _I_ will.”

Faas tittered. “Jus’ be careful, alright?”

“As much as I ever am."

And with that, John rolled over so his face was in the hay and thought about the time when he'd once again wake up in Baker St.

\---

_**Sherlock. Greg once told me you were a great man, and that with luck you would one day also be a good one. Most people have a hard time saying that sort of stuff, especially to you…**_ **I _have trouble with that sort of stuff. But in case I don’t see you again, in case no one else can bring themselves to say what they should_ …** **you are that good man** _ **. You are more human, and more wise, than any person I’ve met. I believe you will continue to do great good things, whether or not I am there. You should believe it, too. Give Mrs H my best. JW**_

Mycroft put the letter on his desk and looked down upon it with his disapproving frown. It was telling, that he’d gotten a hold of this other than his brother for whom it  was intended  . (Rather, Mrs Hudson was the recipient. It hadn’t been easy to get her to part with it.)  His assistant had confirmed it had  been saturated  with the scents of five therianthropes, and each rare species at that  . Three of whom were on his list of missing persons from the supernatural community. He suspected the other two, Andean Cats, hadn't  been reported . Missing persons cases from that populace more often than not went cold. They often couldn’t go to police without risking exposure, and if they did, they had to omit too much.

Dr Watson was attempting to send a clue to Sherlock, but his brother had been under even Mycroft’s radar for  nearly  two weeks now  . It caused no end to his frustration. The Doctor was causing more issues than Mycroft had anticipated.  Certainly  more than whatever good he’d done for Sherlock was worth. It would all be for naught if Sherlock  was killed  for his attachment to Watson.

Mycroft tapped his fingers on the smooth hard wood and considered his options.


	10. The Fae Bazaar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are finally in the same place again. How that works out for them, though...

After handing over a piece of thick cardstock with Runic writing on it, Sherlock and his companion were ushered into the luxurious theatre. There were many other people mulling about, some dressed in robes or adorned with odd jewelry, and many others dressed as Sherlock was; in a fine, custom-tailored tux. He hadn’t given up his coat, but he’d allowed Mrs Hudson’s contact to fiddle with his hair. It was slicked back, a plume of his dark curls fluffed around the back of his head above his neck. Bluebell was similarly made up, her hair (now entirely a lush chestnut) pulled back into a crown of braids which met atop her head in a complex bun. She’d been sewn into her gown, which she was about as pleased about as Sherlock had been with his hairdo, but walked well in her tall heels. She itched around her neck where the sapphire collar rested, it reminded her vividly of her time as a test subject… but her face was pleasant and docile.  
She watched the Neighbors in the room closely, mostly familiars brought along with mages or alchemists, and took stock of what they seemed capable of. She had some skill identifying the types of Fae, but was still nowhere near what she’d like for a situation this tense. Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see them at all, and with his plans that was very dangerous. She hoped he could find John quickly…  
Sherlock was finding himself busy with the things he _could_ see. It wasn’t difficult to identify which people to be wary of, even if he had no Sight. He checked his golden pocket watch. They’d arrived during cocktails, the auction wouldn’t begin for another hour. That was his time limit.  
While Bluebell picked up a flute of champagne and began to mingle, Sherlock slipped away into the hidden vomitorium. A look at the blueprints a week prior had told them of this space, used during performances for actors to move around the house… or during these black market auctions to hide or deliver goods without drawing in snubbed bidders who’d lost, or distracting from the current sale.  
After carefully closing the trapdoor, making certain he hadn’t caused any noise, Sherlock took out his pocket light and faced himself toward the stage. He shone the light up at the door he’d closed. As Bluebell had predicted, it had a circle drawn on it. Only because Sherlock had no affinity with magic had he passed through unimpeded. John would be unable to come out this way.  
Then he turned the light and started making his way down the small, dark hallway as quickly as he could while still being silent.  
\---  
John found himself in the most uncomfortable, compromised situation he’d faced in his life. They had brought in himself, Faas, the twins, the Colonel, and two other Shifters John didn’t know. They’d been transported as animals in cages, and now the handlers (as he’d heard them called) were wrangling them.  
In John’s case, he was human again and starkers. They were threatening him with their cattle prods and a set of chains too big for the Warrah. They kept shouting at him to do something, he couldn’t understand… more Shifter terms he’d never learned. At least they’d finally given in and fed him something reasonable before the transfer here, though he was still nearly skeletal now. He didn’t let them back him into a corner, standing his ground. They’d learned he had combat training, though, and they’d looped a catch pole around his neck before unlocking the cage. They weren’t currently using it, thus it hung loosely. As a reminder, John could guess, that he was not in control here.  
From the corner of his eye, he watched them move one of the unfamiliar shifters in her cage. They seemed to want her to stay as she was; a snow leopard. They collared her with something that looked more decorative than restraining, and led her out while the other men dealt with John.  
“Oi!”  
John didn’t allow himself to snap his attention away from the handlers, but they all turned to look at the young Shifter who’d shed in his cage. There wasn’t much room, as the kennel was meant for the forest cat, so Faas knelt.  
It was the first time John had seen him as human, and he could tell why the not-so-rare Shift was taken; sparkling ice blue eyes, hair white as the face and ruff of the cat he had been, skin a deep tan… he was hardly ordinary now. He was beautiful. John scowled at the thought… whoever wanted him was likely a disgusting creature who’d lay hands on him. He looked barely 18.  
“Ya can’t just shout at him, he dunno what ya want.” Faas spoke to John’s handlers first, then used their confusion to address John directly. “Half-shift, mate. They want you ta only shift part-way. As a Warrah, you’ll look like a traditional werewolf.”  
John had seen it before, Dr Franklin had roamed the moors that way before they’d caught him. “I’ve never done that," he said to Faas, then turned to spit at his captors. "I don’t know how.” At least now he understood the large muzzle…  
“Nevermind, just use the emitter.” One of the handlers took out the little speakerbox-looking machine, like a sort of wonky hand radio. John recognised it, dread hardly having time to settle in his gut before the screeching had him in a cold sweat on all fours. It was a slightly lower, or slower… he couldn’t tell… but his bones creaked and nearly vibrated as the shift took him in slow motion.  
Before he could tell up from down again, something cold and heavy was wrapped around his wrists and muzzle and legs, the clicking of locks warped and deafening to this raw form. He immediately tried to finish changing, which made stars burst in front of his eyes and his heart thump in his skull. He let out a sort of coarse whimper and tried to shed instead, with the same results.  
“Wwwwhat…” He croaked, muzzle chopping in its restraint. Everything ached and he couldn’t move properly, and trying made his chains jangle… sounds, sounds were torture. They grated against his eardrums, nearly enough to make them burst under the pressure.  
He could hear another struggle nearby, voices echoing and ringing. But he could make it out. The twins were resisting, and a handler threatened them.  
“We don’t actually need the both of you!”  
Followed by an angry hissing, a growl. John pulled at his chains, at gravity, at his body’s protest. He let out a threat he didn’t know if he actually articulated or if it was just howling, then there was pain, and then darkness.  
\---  
Crouching, the trap door barely open, Sherlock watched people walk briskly back and forth in front of his line of sight, chattering at one another or themselves. All busy, with purpose… if he hadn’t any context, he might have thought they were actually preparing for a performance, just ordinary stage hands before the show.  
Until, that is, they began to roll ‘lots’ into place. Some were deceptively mundane or things you’d expect at an ordinary auction, such as vases or books, worn clothing, animal hides. Then there were more… exotic things. Some were empty cages Sherlock was fairly certain had fae in them he just couldn’t see, someone wheeled past an enormous cylindrical water tank. In that, Sherlock thought he saw glimmers of something large and dark in the blue-green of the water. No sign yet of any Shifters. ‘ _Good_.’ He thought. ‘ _They’re being kept out of the way._ ’  
He ducked back under and closed his eyes to check the mental image he’d kept of the blueprints. There were still a few possible places he could look.  
\---  
When John woke, he was shaking. His body didn’t seem to be acclimated to the half-shift yet, either that or whatever they were doing to him to keep him that way was screwing with him. Every subtle movement, his joints rubbed his bones together. He could neither pant nor sweat, and was freezing though his fur was thick as when he was full wolf. Altogether, John just felt a deep sense of _wrong_.  
He blinked, since his ears were still ringing too much to rely upon. There were flashing lights in his vision, but he could still make out things in front of him. They had dressed Faas in some sort of Arabian garb, not dissimilar to higher fashion he’d seen overseas, and moved him into human chains run through a ring bolted to the floor. The snow leopard was unchanged, laying in her cage behind thick bars… he couldn’t make out much else.  
His senses in turmoil, John had a start when thick hands dug into his scruff and lifted him to his feet.  
“Walk.” A deep voice commanded. He wracked his brain but couldn’t place the familiar voice. “You’ll be on the block soon. If you make a fuss on stage, if you compromise this auction in any way, there will be no second chance. I will shoot you down. Do you understand?”  
John couldn’t turn to look at the man, hell he could hardly stay up on his own… He settled for nodding, remembering how speaking previously had been like sandpaper in his throat.  
He was led up some stairs that smelled heavily of polish, enough to make John’s eyes water, and the chains around his legs and wrists were circled through with another length, then locked into a bolt on the floor similar to the one he’d seen minutes before. He looked up to see a deep crimson curtain, huge and thick material that muted the goings on opposite them, and realised they were in a theatre. Because of course they were. What a cliched, stupid image of a black market was this…  
His handler walked away, shoes clicking on the hardwood. John could see a girl in rags and chains, and his vision cleared. His ears stopped ringing. He took a step towards her but was stopped by his restraints. She was a small, ordinary girl… but something was odd about her… John supposed there would have to be, for her to be here.  
There were also a few tables of artifacts, most of which were giving off an ominous aura like a warning siren.  
The girl was led out on stage, and John was alone to listen to the announcer or auctioneer or whatever, his voice almost indistinguishable behind the thick velvet curtain.  
\---  
“ _Ladies and gentlemen, what we have for you now is a rare prize, even for this venerable auction house!_ ”  
Sherlock had emerged from a wall panel after scoping out the rafters for a better vantage, cursing himself. The auction had started about twenty minutes ago and he was very swiftly running out of time. His best bet now was to hide backstage near the curtain and wait for John to be brought from wherever he was for the block. Mrs Hudson’s contact, who had been a portly jolly African man with connections that would put Mycroft to shame, had assured him the Warrah Shifter was slated for this auction. It was amongst the bill of rare Shifters to be sold that day.  
Listening closely and watching and stepping carefully, Sherlock checked for personnel backstage as the announcer continued to boast praises about a ‘Sleigh Beggy’ whilst upping the millions of pounds it would go for.  
Halfway through his scan of the room, Sherlock’s mind stopped.  
It was only for half a second.  
But he’d never have mistaken the expressive depths of those eyes.  
\---  
Sherlock’s heart pounded in his head as he unlatched the shackles, picked the locks, lifted the muzzle carefully… It, too, had a circle carved into the silver. And he wished for the first time in his life he couldn’t read everything so easily…  
Malnourished, extremely. Even in a vastly unfamiliar anatomy, it was obvious. Nothing broken, but several marks where he’d been burned by electric shock, healed over, then burned again. Movement weary. Hints of recurrence of psychosomatic limp…  
It all slowed down as John shedded, slumping forwards and catching himself as Sherlock swung his coat off and in one movement had it around John’s pale, boney shoulders. He placed his hands on the shoulders, unconvinced they’d stay where they were, that _he’d_ stay.  
“John…” Sherlock allowed himself to whisper. He tore his eyes off the man he’d spent a month searching after and scanned the area. Still nothing. There was a commotion of some kind on stage, that likely helped. But there was still no telling… “We have no time, you have to come _now_.” Sherlock urged John towards the entrance to the wings.  
But John didn’t move, solid as he ever was. “Sherlock.” He raised his face to look, to be sure. His voice was still rolling off his tongue like gravel under heavy tires on a grid road. But he did not allow himself to feel relief. “We’re right here, we can’t leave them. If they’re sold, we won’t find them again.” He rasped, his face the terrifying calm which instilled chills in those wise enough to read it properly.  
“If _you_ are sold-!” Sherlock started, keeping his voice in check but barely. “We can come back with Mycroft, shut it all down.” He’d nearly forgotten this part, this altruistic stupidity. The stage was beginning to calm, movement…  
“That won’t matter to _these_ people, _now_.” John seemed to be getting more strength in him every second he stood there, Sherlock’s hands not steadying him but ready to, immediately, if needed.  
“John, they’re not important. Look at the bigger picture, it’s just the two of us. If we get caught freeing a handful of Shifters, who will rescue those who come after?” Sherlock spoke almost too quickly to understand, the urgency in his voice causing his fingers to grip a bit harder. “Sometimes you can be bloody stupid.”  
John stood up straighter, in the stance that had initially informed Sherlock of his military origins. “I’m _exactly_ like them. Why risk this at all? Why not get Mycroft to begin with?” He asked, eyes cold, daring the detective to… to what? Sherlock couldn’t quite grasp…  
“You are _nothing_ like them!” Sherlock hissed. They had stayed still much too long. He grabbed John’s arms one at a time and forced them into his coats’ sleeves. The man begrudgingly allowed it. “You are Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Bloody act like it!” He slipped something from his belt, behind his tux jacket, then pressed the Browning into John’s hand. It didn’t hesitate to close around it. Sherlock quickly worked closed the buttons on his iconic coat, kneeling to finish the last few on his short friend as John checked the clip and loaded a round. He finally felt like himself for the first time in a month, even with Sherlock’s coat unearthing memories of a lad playing dress up (why was he so bloody tall?).  
As Sherlock fastened the second to last button, there was a rush of air and a great whirring as the curtain beside them lifted. Both caught in the blinding brightness of the stage lighting, John had the sense to quickly and stealthily slip his gun into a pocket as he raised the other hand to shield his eyes.  
Sherlock honed in on the footsteps of fine leather shoes (men’s, average size, new within a week and only worn indoors) clacking across the stage. Someone began to slowly clap, and as their eyes adjusted...  
“Hullo, Johnny.”  
The man before them was blond, with a scar over one green eye. He was well and simply dressed, and he held a microphone under one arm to leave free his hands. John scowled. He knew exactly who this was.  
“Moran.” He greeted back, voice dripping with distaste behind the hoarseness.  
Sherlock slowly stood, mind both locked onto this man and scanning their surroundings. Nothing behind them seemed to have changed, no personnel were there, he could hear none approaching.  
Moran finished clapping with a last resolute smack… and took the mic out. He turned in one motion, his back to them, and addressed the audience.  
“Items 563 and 289, ladies and gentlemen!”


	11. The Golden Prizes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran manages to successfully sell off our boys. Blue finally meets John and confirms a hunch. Sherlock's lack of Sight is a double edged sword.

“Remember, there is quite an excessive buyers premium should anyone purchase these items together, due to the risk involved. A little background on these lucrative lots; Johnny here, my personal pick, is a British Army vetted Captain, a fully certified doctor, and a rare shift! A Falkland Islands Wolf, to be exact, and you may know this species has been extinct for more than a century! The only way to add one to your menagerie is here on stage with me.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a look of sardonic disbelief.

“Also on the block is Sight-less consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Some of you have heard of his fame in London since his cases have gone viral, but for those who are unfamiliar- Holmes’ modus operandi is a sapiosexual one. Give him a puzzle and watch him dance. Or, if you prefer, use Holmes the younger as leverage against Mycroft Holmes.” There was chatter beyond the blinding veil of stage lights. “Yes, with powerful friends spanning the Western world, a chit to play on Holmes is invaluable on it’s own.”

John reestablished his hold on the familiar cold grip of his L9A1. There was no way either of them were going to be sold off like cattle, not now he had the force and back up to fight.

“We will begin with item 563, Dr John Watson. Remember folks, with the proper discipline, this little soldier can be an invaluable subordinate. Holmes here has proven how easily he can be trained, for the full account you need only access his blog.”

Moran turned to John and winked at him. As John looked at him, unimpressed, he picked up on a sense of expectation. That more than the implications sung into the microphone irked him.

As Moran’s look began to drift into the territory of staring, a ripple of power surged through the auditorium. John’s skin crawled from the hardwood beneath his feet to the crown of his head. Moran’s attention turned back toward the audience in alarm.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he felt John stiffen, unsure of what that meant. He watched John’s eyes widen and follow unseen movement around past the light, and felt an awful twinge. This world he could never access, that John was entrenched in… A place he could not follow.

John, on the other hand, was focussed entirely on the now. While Moran, the patrons, and presumably any staff were distracted, he slid the gun out of the pocket of Sherlock’s coat. Raising it with one quick, efficient motion, he levelled the gun at Moran, center mass, and pulled the trigger.

Moran’s maniacal smile stretched on his face, stretching and stretching backward into his cheeks as his nose elongated.

He’d moved, enough so the bullet missed its mark but still hit him. Now his body was condensing, the suit seeming to fall apart rather than tear around him as his body shook with the effort of half-shifting after being shot. The result once he finished was a huge werebadger, its back claws digging into the pristine wood of the stage.

With talon-like claws, he raised the mic back to his maw and spoke, his once sweet rugged voice a throaty grating. “A demonstration, a show to break up the tension of bidding.” He said shortly… then he let his arm fall and crushed the microphone in his hand. The reverb made Sherlock flinch, but John doubled over clutching his ears. He gripped the gun tightly while gritting his teeth, trying to regain equilibrium. Everything was ringing again. He managed to make out a dim cry from behind him before something heavy struck him from the front, throwing him back off his feet and rolling over the floor. God, he felt sick. His whole left side throbbed.

Someone was on him then, trying to take his gun. He nearly shot them before his hearing returned enough to realise it was Sherlock, frantic.

“John! Give me the gun, I-”

Then he was gone, something moving past him, the stage beneath him shaking enough he could tell the heavy thing was moving around, had knocked Sherlock away, a growl nearly on top of him. He forced his eyes open, beyond the flashing lights he could make out the fuzzy shape. He raised the gun, but huge, hot claws encompassed his hand, gun and all, lifting him…

“No, no, Johnny.” Moran rumbled in his face, showing off his daggered teeth. “One bullet is enough, don’t you think?”

“Not for you.” John hissed back, managing not to slur. He raised his free hand and ran it over the thick pelt, finding the thick warm wet and following it up to it’s source. Before Moran could react, he pushed his fingers forward, digging them into the wound.

Moran howled and dropped him, and John landed hard on the wood. He rolled away as best he could. He looked up in time to see Sherlock raise some jar he’d grabbed from the table, about to throw it at Moran… when John saw the red spot align itself just below the dark curls that had come free in the tussle.

“Sherlock, stop!”

John let out a breath as the detective was able to regain his grip before the jar was out of his hand. They looked up but couldn’t see the gunmen past the stage lighting. They’d had to have taken Moran down much more quickly if they were going to escape. John and Sherlock exchanged looks; John of weary gratitude and Sherlock of calculation and… wanting permission. John’s head was spinning too much to catch what his friend wanted to do, but he trusted whatever it was the genius had cobbled together and gave him a minute nod.

Facing out toward the audience, Moran had sat himself like a dog, haunches down. He opened his maw and, without a mic, spoke loudly so the booming of it echoed the auditorium. “A fine pair of items, folks!”

Another man in a robe and suit walked out, followed by two more plainly dressed personnel who approached Moran and helped him off stage left as the robed man took up a mic to continue the event. “We shall begin bidding for item 563 as stated previously, at one hundred thousand pounds. Dr Watson.” The man motioned as if expecting John to walk forward like a show dog to present himself for sale. Even with the red dot undeniably on his own head as well, that wasn’t happening.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was entirely ignoring the auction. He made his way over to John and knelt with him, checking him over. When he went to undo the coat, John hissed in a whisper.

“Damn it, Sherlock, _no_ . You’re not undressing me on _stage_.”

“Don’t be silly, you were hit quite spectacularly. Let me look at it.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s wrists to stop him, he wasn’t listening. This was ridiculous… “I’m a bloody doctor, I can handle it. I have some bruised ribs. I’ll be half blue up one side for a few weeks. I didn’t see what happened too well, he hit you too.”

Sherlock curled his lips into a grin. He’d stopped fighting and now John was just holding his wrists. “As you have attested multiple times, I have a thick skull. I was dazed briefly and by back aches, but I am fairly certain I have no concussion nor any other serious injury.”

“Sold!” The auctioneer cried cheerfully, catching their attention finally. “For 750,000 pounds to patron 23.”

John finally let Sherlock go, a terrible dread overcoming him.

“John.”

He turned to look at Sherlock, his eyes wide with fright. The detective was still grinning, and spoke calmly and quietly.

“Let them take you.”

That was the last thing John was expecting, and he opened his rapidly drying mouth. “Sherlock, what the f-”

Then the handlers were on him, cuffing his hands behind his back in thick silver manacles. He was too shocked to fight them, or maybe he just trusted Sherlock… he really didn’t know. But he watched the bright intelligent eyes as he was pulled off-stage. They were full of confidence, the exact look they put on when Sherlock was waiting to be asked how he did it.

\---

In a posh sort of cell in the back of the theater(, something like a green room), John sat rubbing his temples on the plush bench. He’d been given a set of clothes (his own clothes, which though were comfortable and familiar, gave him a very off-putting feeling of being violated. Where had they come from??) and a shaving kit, then left and allowed to shave, check his wounds, even have a hot shower. The cell, though barred locked and sealed magically, was otherwise like a hotel room. It all felt surreal.

The oddest thing though, was that Sherlock had come in about a half hour after he’d been there… right as John was in the middle of shaving, with a bundle of his own. He looked annoyingly smug when he came into sight in the mirror, chin up, and told John he looked much better clean shaven before claiming rights to the next shower.

He was in there now, calm as you please, as if they were on holiday or something. He’d nearly forgotten this part, the windswept feeling Sherlock gave him as he flowed along past his confusion. Never… he never could tell what in the _hell_ the brilliant man was thinking. He’d admit often, and vocally, how annoying it was. He would not, however, admit that it was fairly endearing as well.

Hearing the blow dryer going, John muddled over what a posh git his flatmate was, and how maybe he should be taking this more bloody seriously…

Then Sherlock emerged, back to himself sans the coat, which was hanging by the door. He walked right past John and pushed a button John had missed, close to the bottom of the door, with his foot. Then he joined John on the bench and put one leg over the other.

“Any inclination to steal an ashtray from _here_?” Sherlock quipped.

John fought the impulse to smack him upside the head. “Decidedly not.”

“Hm. Unfortunate.”

John looked over incredulously. “What-”

The door clicked, catching John’s wary attention, and opened. A plain-ish brunette (still quite nice, John thought) made up to look taller than she was (John sympathised) walked in, followed closely by two men in suits. They were made up to look as anonymous as possible.

“Payment, miss.”

“I don’t hand over a dime until I see you haven’t damaged my property.” She insisted. She gave off a power John couldn’t- then he smelled it. She was certainly a Shifter. That served to confuse him all the more.

She approached them on the bench and took a seat. “You may go. I will indicate when I have finished inspecting them.”

The men seemed less than happy with the arrangement, but once sealed in… where were they going to go?

So they left. And the woman’s entire demeanor changed from a sharp-tongued socialite to a weary woman closer in class to John himself. She also immediately took off her heels.

“Damn, Sherlock… this was not _at all_ how things were meant to go. What a damned mess.” She thinned her lips and checked her feet… blistered up and sore.

John turned to Sherlock but pointed to the brunette. “Who is this?” He turned swiftly to her as well. “Who are you?”

“John.” She greeted warmly, her tone changing again once addressing him and not Sherlock. “Glad you’re still in one piece, more or less.”

“John…” Sherlock began, “this is Bluebell.”

John’s face went through a few variations of confused and perturbed before he spoke again. “The _rabbit?_ ”

“Rabbit-shift.” Bluebell corrected, rolling her ankles to stretch them.

“That glowed in the dark…”

“I do, indeed.”

“Like a fairy.”

“Not entirely untrue, but not in the way you or K meant.”

Sherlock gave John another half a minute of gawking before leaning back to get comfortable. “She has been my accomplice thus far. Since my regular one was abducted.”

“You replaced me?” John asked sardonically, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock sat forward, apparently forgetting that talk John had with him _personal space_. “I could not ever replace you.” He said, eyes cold and dead serious.

John leaned back a tad, surprised by the sudden intensity. “I was having a laugh.” He tried to backpedal.

Sherlock frowned, not backing off. “I don’t see the humor.”

Bluebell cleared her throat and John, having forgotten she was there, pushed Sherlock back to his own damn side of the bench.

“Yeah, I thought so.” She said, looking smug with a twitch of her nose. John eyed her but didn’t ask.

“So fine, she’s with you… how are we going to get the other Shifters and get _out_ of here?”

Bluebell eyed the door. “We’re not getting the others, not just now. There’s just no way with the risks and what we have available to us.” She looked at John, who’d already begun to protest, but Sherlock cut him off first.

“You’ve managed, then?” He asked Bluebell.

"Yes, everyone is marked. Your brother, you’re sure he can pull this off?”

“Wait, hold up a tick…” John put his hands up and shook his head. “I’m too far out of the loop.”

Bluebell perked up, and Sherlock stood. “There isn’t time to explain now, it will have to wait.” He said, sharing a nod with her. She replaced her heels, albeit begrudgingly.

“John.” Sherlock said invitingly as he gazed down at the doctor with a grin. Some of the color returned to his cheeks as the familiar adrenaline pumped through his veins. He knew what that look meant; imminent, fantastical danger… of the sort they could handle, in Sherlock’s opinion at least. He stood with fervor, the chemicals in his blood allowing him to forget his physical distress.

There was a loud bang on the door, and Sherlock exchanged another look with Bluebell. “Looks like the jig is up.” She said with a sigh and a smirk, kicking off the heels again.

“Put your hands against the back wall and surrender. Comply and you will not be harmed.” The voices from the other side of the door announced.

“Just how likely is that, John?” Sherlock asked as he put on his gloves and donned his coat, not forgetting to flip up his coat collar.

John’s eyes flashed as they moved from his friend to the door and the danger it represented. “Not at all.” He growled, gravel tumbling in his voice.

\---

What had followed was a deep series of quick motions and blurred circumstances, and pain.

Currently, John was caught in a trap circle, Sherlock was using an enviable skill he possessed for improvised weaponry, and Bluebell was half-shifted… which looked very odd… as she fought against someone who’d gotten her arms trapped behind her back.

“John! Do _not_ move!” She called out as he stared at the glowing ink around his feet on the floor. A torrent of magical energy swept around him with the ebb and flow of a wave, setting every hair on his body on end.

“I can’t bloody stand here forever!” He protested, though whilst heeding her warning.

“Not forever.” She tried to push off the ground with her powerful legs, the assailant was already off balance from bending awkwardly, due to her height. “Just until I can fucking tell what it _does._ ” She managed to tilt the two of them and land on top of her attacker, scrambling to get away and to John. She was grabbed from behind by one long ear, which stuck up and back from the side of her head. Crying out in pain and surprise, Bluebell swiped her clawed nails in defense to no avail.

Between that and Sherlock getting the latter end of a baton to the head, John decided he couldn’t wait. “Bugger…” He cursed under his breath and leapt forward. Other than an odd chill and a rumbling in his chest from whence his shifts began, there seemed to be no effect as he rammed a shoulder into the person Sherlock was grappling. They were sent hurdling back and off their feet, the baton skidding across the floor out of their hand.

Sherlock began to share a look of camaraderie with John, but it was quickly undercut by another, harsher exclamation from the rabbit-shift. In the dim light of the hall, she had begun to have a bit of a shimmer around her. Sherlock’s mind recalled the description Kirsty had given of a fairy’s likeness and deemed it accurate.

The assailant’s face was a red mess of criss-crossing lines, but he was holding Bluebell down with his knee on her head, on the floor. She looked shrewd and wild, spitting and scratching at the dense material which protected her captor's legs.

John huffed, leaving the guard he’d knocked the breath out of for Sherlock to deal with and stepping forward. The dark circles around his eyes and gaunt figure, now he was wearing something reasonable, only served to add menace to his visage. “Let her go, now, or I will break your arm.”

Sherlock, as he restrained the first guard carefully with the chains they’d evidently brought for John, heard the second guard chuckle at John’s threat. Sherlock’s lips curled up when the laughter was abruptly cut off by a smacking noise, then a horrid crack.

Standing and brushing off his coat, Sherlock turned to the others with an approving smirk. The other guard was on their front, cuffed and trying their best not to move lest they rouse more pain from their left, oddly angled arm. John was checking Bluebell, who was much more concerned with looking at the circle John had been caught in. The ink was gone(if it had been ink), it had been activated and there was nothing for her to go off of.

“Gnomes, mostly… I think… so something grounded…” She mumbled, shaking her body to throw off her half-shift as she inspected the floor for clues.

John started over towards Sherlock, worried because he’d taken a blow to the head. He stumbled on the way and put a hand to his head, the other to the wall, and slid down onto his haunches as he tried to fight off the dizzy spell swimming behind his eyes.

Sherlock dashed over and crouched next to him. ‘ _Adrenaline's worn off._ ’ He thought, putting a hand to John’s forehead. He was feverish, though not enough to panic over. “We’re not remotely safe yet.” He spoke softly, eyes scanning for anything new, any injuries he hadn’t witnessed.

“Yeah.” John let out a huff of a laugh. “This is no time to be sitting down.”

Although he knew John was making a joke, Sherlock didn’t appreciate it. “That isn’t…” He squeezed his lips together. “Can you stand?”

“‘Course. Just need a tick.”

Bluebell, who had taken a blazer off someone as a trade for her dress, tapped her foot to get their attention. “Reunion later. Neighbors are starting to gather. We’re lucky they were expecting more reliance on magic from us, these were alchemists. They won’t make that mistake twice, we need to leave immediately.”

John blinked and looked up at her. The blazer went halfway down her thighs and she’d had to roll up the sleeves, but she looked so much more comfortable. Somehow it didn’t look as odd as the gown had. He opened his mouth to reply to her, but was distracted by something moving on the ceiling. Sherlock glanced up, but searched in vain. The creature was obviously fae, and looked like a very large, very dark salamander.

“What is that?” He asked Bluebell, speaking quietly and moving slowly. Sherlock helped him stand.

“What it looks like. Probably tuned into fire.” She watched it as well. “Don’t shift. Shifter magic is an odd thing, neither human nor fae. It doesn’t seem to know what we are yet.”

It’s entire head turned around like an owl as it stared directly into John’s eyes, black tendrils coming from it’s cheeks caused a resemblance to an axolotl.

“It’s a familiar?” John asked.

“No.” Another voice called down the stairs at the end of the hall, from which the creature had emerged. “More like a guard dog.”

The clicking of expensive shoes heralding the new arrival put them on edge, all save John. John was fucking _done_.

“That was fun, children. But I think we’re done. A little better housebreaking before the next auction, I should think.” Moriarty casually strolled in, hands tucked in his pockets. “You know this part. Dreadfully dull. Or would you prefer to wrestle around on the floor a while longer?” With a look of superiority, the Irishman pulled a hand from his pocket and began to raise it. Sherlock’s eyes flashed as he recognized the tool in his hand, and he pulled his gloves out with practiced swiftness. He donned them, and before John could even tell what was happening the leather clapped hard over John’s ears and pulled him in.

Confusion, embarrassment, alarm all swept over John and he started to try to push away. He was right in Sherlock’s bloody chest now, being held, _coddled_ , in a vice-grip. He couldn’t hear himself protest. Sherlock dug in, not giving ground, and a horrid chill ran over John’s body as he realized what Sherlock was protecting him from… the emitter.

Sherlock watched Bluebell closely, this transformation was nothing at all like the one he’d seen on the plane. She shook, her bones cracked as they condensed down, and she was shivering excessively. It made him clutch harder at John, to keep out the pitch Sherlock himself couldn’t make out. He didn’t let go even when Moriarty clicked off the little black box and replaced it in his pocket.

The master criminal stepped forward, his attention off the men against the wall, and gingerly picked up the little brown bunny by the scruff. He stood tall and held the ball of brown fur at eye level. “Lights down.” He drawled lazily. Somewhere unseen, a lackey dimmed the lights. The grin that slowly spread across the maniacal man’s face was illuminated by an eerie green glow. “Miss Bellefeuille. Your return causes Dr Stapleton quite a problem.”

With the green and the voice and the look on Moriarty’s face, Sherlock was struck with the image of a snake readying to strike. The fact that Bluebell was a rabbit only lent credence to this visual.

Sherlock had yet to release John, who was now still. His muscles were tensed and ready, but he didn't realize the emitter was off. There were two reasons the detective kept his hold; to keep still and unnoticed while he worked out their escape, and the other was floating in the back of his mind. He wasn't entirely clear on it, he'd have to come back to it later…

After going through the blueprints in his head, Sherlock found his path. He slowly released John and helped him stand, eyes never leaving their enemy.

Apparently finished his inspection on Bluebell, Moriarty lifted his other hand and transferred her over. He now held her by his side, by her ears, and looked over to Sherlock. John was still about an inch from the detective, much to his discomfort, but didn't move.

“Step away from the doctor, dear.” Moriarty cooed.

“No.”

John looked up, first at his friend’s determined, cold face… then to the thing sticking to the wall directly above their heads. It flicked out an overlarge tongue, a spit of fire flickering only a second around it's lips.

“Have you any idea what I'll do to you if you don't?”

“Hm, yes. I should think so.”

“Cute.” Moriarty raised his hand again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and prepared to protect John. But the emitter wasn't in his hand, nothing was. He faced the palm towards himself to show off a fairly plain band on his finger, set with one cloudy red gem.

John shuddered just once, a flare of submission flicking through him just as the salamander’s head flicked towards the simple jewelry.

“Sherlock…” John started as the beast opened its jaw, much wider than should be possible and let out a screech that made him cover his ears. Sherlock was, of course, unaffected by the fae creature… but as John scanned the room, he noticed something that made him pause. Moriarty didn't seem to have heard it either.

“Tsk tsk…” the villain turned his hand to waggle a finger at them. “Do I have to start counting? Let go of your pet and step back. Three.”

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Moriarty’s.

John looked at the creature, then to each of the geniuses/idiots.

“Sherlock.”

“Two.”

“Sherlock, really…”

“Hush, John. I'm not moving.”

“One…”

“Sherlock!” John gripped hard onto Sherlock’s upper arms and wrenched him sideways, away from the wall. Just as a burst of very real flame shot down upon them.

They landed hard but not worse than singed, and John scrambled to keep moving them as his eyes followed the erratic, flitting creature. It dashed around, growing smaller or larger at random, and as it went to pass Moriarty John readied himself to use the distraction to free Bluebell. She was hanging limp, eyes slitted and weepy, and as a jackrabbit she was heavy enough holding her that way could damage her.

But the dark mass moved _right through_ Moriarty, and it clicked in John’s mind.

Standing and staring the criminal down, John cleared the gravel from his throat. “You can't see them either, can you?” The salamander continued to race around, but the black eyes John stared into narrowed. John could feel hate ooze towards him before, but now it was engulfing. “You don’t have the Sight.” John pounded the nail in with a curl of his lips.

Moriarty rocked on his heels, head not moving as he stared into the cocky doctor. “I’ve said before, I don’t like to dirty my hands…” He clenched a fist with his ringed hand. The salamander stopped dead and expanded. John had just enough time to shove Sherlock out of the way before a cascade of fire rained down, setting the floor alight.

John’s entire body throbbed as he ducked and rolled, covering his face. He could feel his jumper burning but the flames hadn’t found flesh for the most part. He crawled away from the heat and dark smoke, and a hand grasped his, pulling. It was soft and dry, something wasn’t right…

“But you’re special, aren’t you Doctor Watson.” Moriarty’s face was in his, flipping him on his back and pinning him. His hands wrapped around John's throat. Long, strong thumbs pushed his larynx in as a wild-eyed grin hijacked his vision. Between that and the heat crawling up his legs via his burning trousers, John could think of nothing but the Irishman crushing the life from him. He dug his nails into… some fabric… He was so weak, he couldn’t think…

“John!”

Sherlock was here… Sherlock had found him after all that time…

“Special… I eagerly await his response when I show him your lifeless body.”

John pushed as hard as he could down on Moriarty’s hands and swung up with his elbow. Moriarty dodged back, then backhanded John in the face…

Seeing lights… Sherlock… Hands were crushing again, no air… dark…

“John!” The voice was closer, frantic, still behind the crackling flame.

“You ruined him, you know.” The gleeful voice whispered, his lips brushing John’s ear. Then the fingers cutting off his air loosened and gently caressed his bruised skin as they withdrew. “I think I’d prefer you in chains after all… some rich alchemist’s toy… What do you think, Johnny? Would that failure burn him more than a merciful death?”

John rolled on his side as the weight on his chest lifted and vanished, clutching his throat as his body convulsed and he coughed himself raw.

A figure was upon him and he jerked away, recoiling in a ball.

“John.” The familiar voice was frantic, hands moving over his throat to his face, pinching open his watering eyes to examine him. “John, it’s me. Breathe.”

It wasn’t until noticing the weight of his clothes that John realized he was soaked. The sprinklers in the room had turned on at some point. God, he was tired… just lying on the floor strained at his beleaguered muscles. He tried to speak but only rasping came out, and he descended into another fit.

“Slowly. Don’t speak.” Sherlock was moving to…

John jolted and his eyes shot open, forced himself to sit up no matter how his body screamed in protest. He wasn’t letting Sherlock carry him.

“Mo…” He managed to force out as Sherlock settled for just helping him stand and putting his arm over his shoulders.

“Gone. I don’t know why. Suddenly he decided to run off and put out the fire.” Sherlock looked around the ruined hall. Even the guards were gone. “He took Bluebell.”

Reestablishing his grip, Sherlock helped John to the passage that would lead them out.

“Why-” John croaked.

“...did he let us go? No idea. I’ll solve it once we’re out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am getting less and less confident about writing these characters properly. If you notice something OOC or any other issues you can help me fix, please leave a comment. 
> 
> Chapter 12 is planned to go up by Wednesday. Still the 20 chapters I have planned are coming along well, there will be more than 20 chapters though.


	12. The Three Tangled Webs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three different problems face our boys. Neglecting just one will have dire consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my Dad for telling which helicopter to reference here, for accuracy. Love you, Dad! Don't read this, dear god...
> 
> This is a rather long chapter, to fit everything I wanted.

Tapping the point of his umbrella on the grass then twirling it there, Mycroft Holmes watched impatiently as the sun’s light began to leak over the horizon on the far side of the glen. He was glistening because even in the cool night, he had to hike the last three miles on foot. His assistant and several other personnel stood around him silently, none of them as out of breath as he.

Finally, what he was waiting for emerged. Not from the horizon, but somehow melting out of the side of a mossy hill. He stood still, watching. Frowning.

His assistant looked over and up at him with a knowing grin. As annoyed as Mycroft was, the glittering behind his eyes betrayed just how relieved he was to see his baby brother.

 

The walk across the glen to the apparition of his brother was slow as Sherlock stepped carefully on the dew-laden grass and moss, his arm supporting John. The army doctor was set and determined, he leaned on Sherlock for help but not nearly as much as the detective thought he should.

Instead of trying to talk again, he nudged against Sherlock’s ribs on their next step and motioned his head towards the little group in front of them by a hundred or so yards.

“Yes… I’d say that is my brother. He’s getting slow, if he couldn’t find me until now. Why he’s making us limp over there I couldn’t say. Possibly spite.”

As they slaked through to the last ten feet, John realized why Mycroft was staying back; they’d only just crossed some unmarked boundary.

Then there was a rush of activity as medical professionals buzzed around. They took John, though Sherlock was reluctant about that. He participated in some kind of staring contest with Mycroft while also keeping the mess of blond hair in his periphery, watching an IV being started, blood taken, general looking over…

Mycroft waded through the organised chaos as his people rolled John carefully on an old cloth gurney, and stood before his irritating, idiot brother. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm, forcing it towards him though Sherlock jolted, pulled back, and yelled. “You took off your cast.” Mycroft dripped with fury.

Sherlock ripped his arm from his brother’s weaker grasp. “I took care of it properly.” He hissed. “Until you yanked on it, it was fine.”

Mycroft looked over as the others finished up. “Enough. It’s a long walk to the S-92."

"Yes, why is that? It seems like... foot-work."

"Because, brother dear, the folk around here do not like technology. When we get back to London, you’re going right back into hospital.”

“It stupefies me that you still have some fantasy you can force me to do _anything_ I’d rather not.”  Sherlock shot back as he sped up to leave his out-of-shape babysitter behind and catch up with the two people carrying John’s gurney.

\---

It wasn’t long before things were back to whatever the Baker Street lingo for normal is. Notable exceptions included Sherlock’s new cast, which Lestrade explained had been rigged with ink explosives. The sort that banks and shopping centers used. And he said it in such a manner that John considered perhaps the DI had come up with that solution personally.

Another would be John’s schedule, which was now to include rising at dawn for a series of workouts designed (by Sherlock) to build his strength and weight back up. Sherlock did not anticipate how that would also change John’s sleep schedule during the ten week program. Unless they were on a case, which quickly derailed any kind of planning, Sherlock spent the seven hours John slept softly practicing with his violin.

About a week after they’d been back at Baker Street (which came after three days in hospital for John to stabilize), John returned from the jogging part of his morning and came up the steps in the odd way Sherlock’s plan outlined. He saw his flatmate, fully dressed, lying on the sofa with his fingers tented.

“You were out when I left?” John asked as he went to the fridge to grab some water. Somehow they’d come home to a spotless kitchen (though more than half the counter space was still chemistry tools) and a fully stocked fridge. John had yet to find any human remains in it.

“Hm.”

John looked at him while he twisted the top off his water. “Do we have a case?” He closed the fridge and started towards his chair. Before he could get there, Sherlock sat up, and a brown fuzzy lump slid from Sherlock’s chest where his hands had rested to his lap.

“Is that…”

“Hm.” Sherlock replied, obviously not paying any attention.

“Why is she-”

“Oh.” Sherlock stood all at once and stepped on and over the coffee table to sit opposite John. “No, this is Bluebell, but not.”

“It’s…” John stopped as he finally sat down and was close enough to smell her… no Shifter in the air, just an ordinary rabbit. “Sherlock, why do you have that?”

“Promise.” Sherlock absently stroked the rabbit, mostly with the cast, deep in his own mind.

John sighed and gave up on getting answers at the moment, taking a long draw of water. The repetitive movement drew in John’s eye, and he was reminded of what Faas had said about acting like a pet.

“Do you like doing that?” John asked before he realized it was out loud.

For a tick, John thought maybe it passed by unnoticed, getting another ‘Hm,’ from Sherlock. Then the detective did a double take to look John right in the eye.

‘ _Fuck._ ’

“Do I enjoy… what?”

John kept eye contact and nervously licked his lips. “Nothing. I was thinking about something else.”

Not even John had any fantasies of that dissuading the inquiry.

Sherlock stood again, the docile rabbit resting in the hinge of his cast, and came within a foot of John’s legs to gaze down at him. “Enjoy holding an animal?”

John raised his brow, sighed, then lowered it impatiently. “Seeing it just reminded me of talking to the other Shifters.” John said, shrugging it off. They hadn’t spoken at all about the month John was missing since leaving the auction.

Sherlock read over John’s minute expression changes. “You want to go after them.”

Looking down and away, John raised a hand to rub over his face. “I don’t… know if we can. It was hard enough to get into one of those events, how would we possibly find where the lots went?”

“We don’t have to.” Sherlock blinked at him, as if he’d forgotten something basic. John fought a grin and failed.

He sighed. “How’s that?”

“We just need to follow the sylphs.”

Now John was expressing annoyed disbelief. “What…” He huffed, “...is a sylph?”

Wearing his smuggest, easiest to punch face, Sherlock turned in one step and started his ‘I’m going to make a little play out of explaining this to you’ pacing. “I’m surprised you don’t know. We need to discuss exactly how thin your magical knowledge is.

“A sylph is a fae, or Neighbor, aligned with the air. Before we came for you, she set up a way for these particular sprites to leave a way to follow and placed it on each of the other Shifters there with you, and luckily, herself as well. We weren’t going to take the chance of losing track of you again.”

“Sherlock…” John rubbed his temples wearily. “Why haven’t we been tracking them? We’ve been home for a week already.”

“Obviously…” Sherlock huffed, putting the rabbit down on his chair and tugging his sleeves back down to cover his cast, “because I can’t see them, and you can’t go running all over the planet until you weigh more than a hundred pounds.”

“A hun- Sherlock, I still weigh more than you and you’re a foot taller!”

“Eleven inches. And you are not skilled at putting aside your physical needs.” Sherlock frowned deeply, looking down at John. Who fisted and unfisted his left hand.

What the hell was he so sour about all of a sudden? “Fine, okay. Where do we start?” John sighed, draining his water. Tea… tea was called for.

“We don’t.” Sherlock insisted impatiently. “I just explained this in simple enough terms.”

“Yeah, I understood your _meaning_ Sherlock…” John stood, forcing his flatmate to take a step back. “Since when do _you_ use caution like this? You have a booby trapped cast on your arm because you can’t be trusted to keep it on!”

Sherlock stared for a moment, then leaned forward. Before John could react, Sherlock dipped sideways to catch the rabbit, which had hopped off his chair, before it hit the floor.

Embarrassed, John turned away and went to the kitchen to make himself some tea.

\---

That afternoon, which was preempted by a mutual feigned ignorance that left Baker Street rather quiet, brought in the calls of one DI Lestrade. He leapt up the stairs in a hurry that echoed into the silent flat, and took a second to catch his breath.

“John…” The DI huffed, relief softening the lines on his face. He took two great steps to where the doctor was standing, about to take his teacup to the kitchen for a refill. Lestrade grabbed him unexpectedly, hugging him.

“Sorry I didn’t visit you since the hospital, mate. I didn’t know you’d been released until today.” The DI chuckled, slapping John on the back and withdrawing.

“Thanks Greg.” John put a hand on his friend’s shoulder for a moment. “Probably for the best, I didn’t look too good a week ago, if you recall.”

“Pish-”

“Detective Inspector.” Sherlock interrupted loudly, looking perturbed. “Did you, or did you not, come here with a case?”

“Ah. Right.” Lestrade stepped away and pulled out a letter. “I know you chaps haven’t had much of a chance to recover, but I really need the help.”

Sherlock approached and took the letter. He ran it under his nose and looked over the blank envelope carefully before flicking it open and withdrawing the paper inside. It was a pedestrian thing, three fold on regular paper, with their address and names printed neatly in the top left corner.

John watched as Sherlock read it over. “What is it?”

When Sherlock didn’t reply, Lestrade huffed and sat down. “An old mate from school, played rugby with me, called me out of the blue last night. He has an… odd problem. At his wit’s end. Didn’t know what to do. I asked him to write it all down and send it over, that I could get in touch with the famous Sherlock Holmes. An hour ago he was asleep on my sofa and I had that.” He pointed at the paper, which was now hanging loosely from Sherlock’s hand at his side as he stared at nothing. He was obviously deep in thought.

John sighed and easily tugged the paper away to read it himself.

 

_To Misters Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_

_Of number 221B Baker Street, London England_

_And to no others, no matter their concern._

 

_I come to you with a most delicate matter, one which I have difficulty discussing. It concerns the errant behavior of my wife-_

 

John read on about the woman twice taking a paddle to her stepson, a teenager from their client’s previous marriage, and the more disturbing part of this case which likely led it to them at all… that this woman had been seen, firsthand, by her husband… drinking the blood from the neck of their infant son.

“What, a vampire?” John read the lines over to be sure.

“An anthropologist.” Sherlock corrected.

“Are anthropologists known for drinking blood?” John huffed.

“No.” Sherlock replied dryly.

“So are you taking the case, then?” Lestrade asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands.

“Yes, of course. Sussex, was it? Have Mr Ferguson meet us at Victoria station by 9:30 this evening, I need to see the house. John and I will stay at an inn and come over in the morning.”

Standing, Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate. Bob’s a good man.”

“That is inconsequential. It’s an interesting case, and one I assume would escalate, unsolved, in the hands of anyone else.”

Lestrade wrinkled his brow a bit and nodded. “In any case…”

Sherlock turned and went to the shelf, pulling out a dusty volume. “9:30. Don’t be late.”

“Right, well. I’ll be off.” The DI scratched the back of his neck and turned to John. “Take care, and just ring me up if you need anything.”

“Don’t mind him, Greg, he’s just annoyed his body heals at a normal human rate.”

Lestrade chuckled and agreed, then left. Neither man saw the scowl Sherlock wore behind the book open an inch from his nose.

\---

“-and thus it became obvious from the decor featuring African weaponry the injuries were from a blow dart, not teeth, be they supernatural in nature or not. Jealousy is not a permissible defense for infanticide, Jack.”

Sherlock was just revealing the real perpetrator in the Sussex Vampire case. The wiry teen didn’t look about to run even without his burly father’s hand on his arm.

“Of course, though I realize you wanted to spare your husband the pain of knowing what his first-born was capable of, that hardly justifies striking him in lieu of reporting it.” John added to the sickly woman in whose bedroom they all stood. She had indeed sucked the blood of her infant son… but it was to remove poison from the wound. Of course that had rendered the woman quite ill. “Luckily, the concentration in your system isn’t enough to kill you. You’ll recover in a few weeks.”

The woman was crying with relief, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Bob the truth but now that it was out in the open… she felt free.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson… thank you.”

“Damn it, Jacky…” Bob sighed, shaking his head.

Sherlock tugged minutely on John’s sleeve. “I think we can let them sort it out from here.” He nodded towards the door.

Between the mother being allowed, after a week, to hold her baby and Bob sitting Jack down nearby to have a chat, they were able to slip out without more bawling or thanks.

\---

As they walked out into the foggy country morning, Sherlock donning his gloves and feeling satisfied, John suddenly stopped. It was just beyond the property’s front gate, on an old road. They’d come around the back when they’d arrived, where the drive was. Since they’d taken Bob’s car in, they were set to walk back to the nearby town to catch a train. ‘A brisk jaunt after an easy case.’ Sherlock had said.

“John?” Sherlock turned back when he noticed the doctor wasn’t beside him.

“You said sylphs, yeah?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, feeling suddenly less light. “John…”

“Ribbons or something to follow?”

“John, no. We are not prepared for that yet.” Sherlock tapped his foot. “Where.”

Not that he had to ask, John was pointedly staring at a spot about ten feet above their heads and off down the road. Opposite the way they had to go. “Do you know her? Bluebell, like me but a rabbit.”

“John.”

“Yeah. No, you don’t have to come. London, it’s called. Yeah, real big.”

“John, stop.”

As if in a trance, the doctor stepped forward. Before he could get half a dozen steps down the road, he jolted and turned back. Sherlock had grabbed him with his good hand, on his upper arm.

“Sherlock…” He blinked, speaking as if he hadn’t expected the detective to be there.

Huffing, Sherlock pulled John around to face him and leaned in so John could smell the sugary coffee on his breath. “John.” He said again, percussively into his face.

Blinking and shaking his head, John finally threw off the stupor. Realizing most all he could see were the discerning icy eyes and damn sharp cheekbones of his flatmate, John scrambled to back up. Sherlock kept his grip firm.

“You’re going to start me smoking again.” He muttered. “Back with us in reality, then?”

“What? Sherlock, what the hell. Let me go.”

“No.”

“Don’t… Sherlock, jesus.” John pulled back, anxiety rising up his esophagus at how close their faces were, how Sherlock was honing in on him and reading _everything._ Finally, John planted his foot and wrenched out of Sherlock’s grasp and turned away, pacing up the road and back. “What…”

“You’ve never spoken to Neighbors before, have you?” Sherlock straightened his coat and raised the collar to protect from the wind.

“No, no. What, you’re the expert now?” John snapped. He couldn’t calm down. His chest itched and he wanted to run. ‘ _On all fours…_ ’ No. No! He jerked his head a bit, but couldn’t shake it.

“Not as such, but I’ll have to do as our expert was nicked. She shared a few relevant details; how to tell what sorts of fae you’re dealing with, how to deal with them without getting cursed or worse, which humans use them, how, and why… Things of that sort.” Sherlock watched carefully as John started to sweat and shiver.

“Yeah, and?”

“And you’ve obviously been ignoring fae as long as you could see them, or written them off as fantasy. Now you haven’t any idea how to go about it properly, evidenced by how easily they’ve provoked your fae instincts and nearly spirited you away.”

Finally stepping into John’s path and stopping him from moving other than clenching and unclenching his fist, Sherlock put out a hand. John looked at it, not understanding.

“Don’t let yourself be taken somewhere I cannot follow. Here.” Sherlock withdrew just long enough to take the glove off that hand before offering it again. “John.”

Shaking his head again as the wind blew his hair around, as the spirits danced around and talked to him and told him they could help him, John became irritated. “Stop it!” He commanded as he slapped his hand into Sherlocks.

It was like a bucket of ice water to the face. The Neighbors had quieted, back to the wisps they were usually in John’s periphery, the pull in his chest subsided, he no longer felt itchy… he was as he’d been; a bit knackered but focused and neutral.  

Breathing carefully in the wake of the experience he’d just gone through, John held on and looked credulously up at Sherlock.

“Better, then?”

“Yeah…”

“Willing to agree with me now? That we’re not prepared yet for tracking down the others.”

“... yeah.”

Sherlock let out a fond huff. “I know you’re concerned, John, but we can’t take steps backward.”

John just nodded, and Sherlock led him back up the road and towards the village.

John didn’t realize he was still holding Sherlock’s hand until he asked for it back to buy the tickets, and neither of them spoke of it on the ride back to London.

\---

_Five days previous_

The fact that it was raining was only one of many things which made this meeting with Mycroft Holmes eerily reminiscent for John. It was also the fact they faced each other at a table inside Speedy’s, and that the elder Holmes had a file sealed in plastic. What seemed different was how Mycroft was looking at him. _That_ reminded him of what the sourpuss expressed towards people who were particularly troublesome according to Holmes standards.

John didn’t touch his tea. He just listened to the rain and London and the tap tap tapping of Mycroft’s trademark umbrella on the tile.

“It has come to my attention, and I feel you’d agree, that as of late… my brother has been slightly more… requiring of care.” Mycroft began finally.

John crossed his arms and leaned back a touch. “That so?”

Mycroft’s lips twinged. “Yes, Doctor Watson. That is so.” He drawled, obviously irked. John smiled. “And I am also certain you’d note, no matter certain appearances, I do _care_ for my baby brother.”

“In your own manner of speaking… Why am I here, Mycroft?”

“Very well,” the older man sighed, “I will spell it out for you. To be blunt, these,” he pushed the file towards John, who made no move towards it, “are everything you’ll need to relocate to a therianthrope community in America.”

John watched carefully, raising a brow. When Mycroft only stared back, John let out a puff of a laugh. “You’re not serious.”

Mycroft rubbed his left eyebrow. “Do you know me as a jokester.” He replied, dry as a bone.

John leaned forward and tapped a finger to the plastic. “You’re telling me to leave Baker Street. Is that really what this is?”

“Yes. I allowed you to stay before because you had no ties to magic and you helped keep my brother alive. Now your presence is counter-intuitive on both points. I’m grateful for your service, doctor, so I will do you this kindness. Take this. Go overseas. I hope I don’t have to threaten you.”

John’s face moved to highlight a quirk of amusement. “Well I think we’d both find that embarrassing.”

Mycroft stood, his umbrella’s point making one last ringing _click_ against the tile. “Take the week, Doctor Watson. Say your goodbyes. Gather what sparse possessions that hold meaning for you. Look over this file.” He tapped it with, of course, his damned umbrella. “Then I will have a car collect you.”

John sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Yeah. The week. Then the month, the year, and however long past that I damn well please.”

“Don’t make a mistake. One week. Voluntarily or by force.” Mycroft looked down his nose at the cocky partner his damned annoying brother had chosen. Then he turned and left. “One week.” He called behind him as the door swung shut after him.

John’s smile soured as he looked down at the manila folder and it’s CIA emblem. “Ponce.”

But he picked it up all the same, if only to try and get rid of it somewhere Sherlock wouldn’t see, before leaving his cold tea and returning home to 221B.

And if along the way, he googled ‘therianthrope’, no one needed to know about that, either.

\---

_Back to current events_

As Sherlock paid the cabbie, John opened 221B with thoughts of a shower and a winker on his mind. Whatever the hell had happened when he was talking to the sylphs had drained him, made him feel clammy and not right in his own skin.

Just as he swung open the door, Sherlock turned.

“John-!”

The familiar click of a handgun cocking. Very familiar. Military issue, not a Browning though.

John looked sideways at the barrel, and along it back to the threat; a woman John had never seen before. He tried to read her as Sherlock would, but only got surface details; about his age, maybe a tad older, possibly South American, already silvered hair...

“Call in your friend and close the door. Keep your distance, nothing _clever_.” She had a slight accent, but John couldn't place it.

John didn’t take his eyes off her. “Sherlock. Could you come in here?” He huffed. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment… but Sherlock had noticed something already, he would be able to finish this, whatever this was. He put up his hands with a sour face.

Stalking in, head held high, Sherlock moved past John and around to close the door. “Where is Mrs Hudson?” He asked, standing just behind John with his hands up.

“She wasn’t here, rather no one was.” The woman replied shortly. Something looked very familiar about her… “Where is my son?” She spoke with quiet ferocity, the pistol in her hand honed in on John’s heart unwavering.

“I don’t know who you are. Who is your son?” John answered.

“You should know me. You had everything set up, the whole thing just to lure him out and take him. Where is he, Doctor Watson? No games. Or I will kill you. And I'll have your friend show me.”

John sniffed in a breath through his nose and let it out his mouth slowly. “I honestly…” Then he stopped. It was her eyes, those piercing blue eyes… “You… you’re Faas’ mother.”

She raised her brows, tilted her head slightly, and nodded.

‘ _Fuck._ ’

“I did not kidnap your son, I was kept with him.”

She cocked the pistol, making sure he knew there was a round in the chamber. “No lies.”

“Miss…”

“Kar.”

“Miss Kar.” Sherlock began. “Why is it you suspect us of abducting your son?”

She glared. “Are you serious?” She sniffed the air dramatically. “I’ve been searching for months, researching, listening. I know a Shifter has been helping the black market capture us, I know you’ve been at the center of their latest activity, I know that once picked up… no Shifter gets out, not without being allowed to do so. Why would they let you go, if you weren’t involved?”

“Yes, an excellent question. I’m afraid I haven’t worked that out just yet. What I-”

“Stop.” She interrupted. “I know you, as well. Mr Holmes. You with the razor eyes and the silver tongue… that is, when you so choose. You will not talk your way out. Not another word from you or I will kill Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock frowned but kept his lips shut.

“Now. You have one minute Doctor. Tell me where to find my son, or where your contact is.”

“I don’t… they let us go and we came out in a field in the Irish countryside. That’s the best I can do, I don’t know where they kept us. I spoke to your son, but as another prisoner.”

“This is a terrible way to spend your last minute alive.”

“I am telling you the truth, we’re going to look for him-”

“Enough!” She yelled, moving her finger to the trigger. “I’m starting to think a minute was too generous.” She seethed.

There was a creak, then the distant call… “Boys! Are you home?”

Kar was distracted just long enough for John to rush forward and grab the gun, Sherlock close behind, and two shots rang out in the enclosed space of the front hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I couldn't find a way to add it into the story organically, Sherlock knew someone was in the flat because of the knocker. Mycroft puts it to center, John uses it to close the door so it ends up to the right. It was to the left. Mrs Hudson doesn't touch it.
> 
> I referenced two ACD stories here; the Sussex Vampire and one other I hope is obvious. In the Vampire case, which I cut and shortened due to the length of the chapter, I do not mention a disability in one of the characters. This is because it has little bearing on the case itself and I thought throwing it in there would be tactless, seeming sort of like an afterthought. I will be the first to admit, I do not know if this was the right call. Please let me know in the comments if I should have included it, and if so, how to do so properly.  
> If enough people are interested, I will write and post the entire case in this AU.
> 
> Next chapter slated for this week (before Friday). Sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger.


	13. It Was Worth a Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft drops all pretense and is an unmitigated ass, mostly because he doesn't approve of how close John and Sherlock are getting, and how dangerous that is for his brother. Damn it Sherlock, you were supposed to be above such attachments!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the first person to say Mycroft is both super hard to write, and not as much of an ass as I have him being here. But this is more fun and not completely OOC and it's my fic so there.
> 
> Sorry this is a little late, it was a very difficult chapter for me. New territory.

Elevated heart rate, sweaty palms, trembling all over, the feeling of being smothered represented outwardly with shortness of breath. All telling signs of panic. Only Sherlock was not accustomed to these signs in himself.

“John! John, talk to me! Are you hurt?” Sherlock had taken the gun from his hands and sat him carefully on the step. He couldn’t make his mind work, look him over. He had to rely on the doctor to assess himself.

“Sherlock… Sherlock calm down. Shit, that hurts…” John hissed. He was pressing his palm into his thigh to stem the bleeding. Though he was fairly certain the bullet had gone straight through and hadn’t hit bone or anything too important… it was rather hard to say when he had to concentrate on that _and_ his frantic flatmate. He was practically in his lap, hands patting him over to check, nearly in the full throws of an anxiety attack.

Sherlock’d hit Miss Kar with his cast to disable her, which would have been a hilarious image if it wasn’t in the wake of yet another bullet passing through John’s body. Only this wasn’t the war, and there weren’t other doctors on hand.

“Oh… oh…” Mrs Hudson walked in, and was taking in the scene.

“God, Mrs Hudson… call the police, will you? And an ambulance.”

“John, are you…”

“Shot. Yeah… Still though.”

She frantically went off to the kitchen where her phone was.

“Sherlock… jesus.” Taking his hand off the wound, John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and shoved him up out of his lap to face him. “Look at me. It fucking _hurts_ , but I’ll live. Pull it _together_.”

Sherlock began to slow his breathing, searching John for a lie. The vivid red caught his eye and he looked over at the thick blood coating John’s hand. “She…”

Everything came rushing back, all his senses, much too quickly. A heat, a rage he’d never known. As the woman groaned, getting her own senses back, Sherlock was upon her.

“You…” He gripped her collar with both hands, though it tugged at his cast and his arm, and raised her. Her eyes cleared, he knew she could understand. “God help you, if you’d killed John, _you would not have left this flat alive._ ”

She hissed in his face and he thought he was losing his grip a moment. But her face morphed until she was baring real fangs, and she slipped from her clothes and down the hall before Sherlock had recovered enough to catch her.

Mrs Hudson came in past her, not seeing, and gasped at the abandoned clothes Sherlock was just releasing.

“Yellow-throated marten.” Sherlock whispered.

“Ambulance is coming, and Lestrade as well.” Mrs Hudson said in response.

John hissed, and Sherlock whipped back around. “Yeah. Sorry about the floors, Mrs Hudson," John motioned at the small trail of blood he'd left, "though I’m sure with him here they’ve seen worse.”

“John…” Sherlock huffed and sank in before his friend, now seemingly able to assess things himself.

“Dammit Sherlock _that hurts!_ ”

\---

On the positive side, John already had a cane and knew how to use it properly. How long he had to keep using it, they wouldn’t say. Especially since he made no qualms about continuing to work almost immediately. 

He clicked on the tile out of the surgeon’s office thinking he’d be lucky if getting shot was the worst thing that happened to him that day, then frowned. His luck hadn’t held out, since the wrong Holmes was waiting for him.

“If my counting is correct, I still have another day on your ridiculous deadline.” John leaned on his cane, after thinking better of just walking out.

“True enough. I’m not here to pile on, as it were. How is your leg?”

John took in a breath and let it out his nose. “Can we not play this game? I’ve had enough for one day.”

Raising a brow, Mycroft stood and reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded, crinkled paper. It took a second before John recognized it and felt a chill. “Very well. I am here to express my condolences, and to ask your opinion. This letter was, after all, intended for Sherlock.” His shrewd eyes lifted to gaze coldly at John. “I’m asking, Doctor Watson, if you’d like it delivered now you’re both back.”

John thinned his lips. He’d forgotten it entirely, but now he saw that damned cartoon duck watermark and green wax… the contents came rushing back.

“I would understand if you’d rather not. After all, it was written under duress. However…” 

John readied himself, he knew Mycroft well enough to expect the final blow. 

“... it would serve as an excellent ‘going away’ present. Wouldn’t you agree?” When John didn’t reply, Mycroft became serpentine. “Of course if you’ve managed to express this already, perhaps during your daring escape or heart-felt reunion, there may be no need.”

John stood stock still. He’d never liked Mycroft, though he had some respect after seeing he did really look out for Sherlock, in his own ways. Never before, even when being threatened to leave 221B, did John hate him. Now it was like a vapor coming off him. Mycroft pushed buttons, yes… but this was taking John’s feelings and holding them hostage, feelings John hadn’t properly come to terms with.

Then the elder Holmes was turning, tucking the letter away. “Speak of the devil, as they say.”

Sherlock was stalking through the hospital lobby towards them, open hostility on his face. “Get the fuck out of here, Mycroft.”

“No need for that, I assure you. I was only checking up on your dear doctor here.” Mycroft said smugly, looking from his irate brother to John.

Leaning harder on his cane, John joined Sherlock in his obvious disdain, albeit with his chilling smile. “I’d say it’s time for you to sod off.”

Mycroft sniffed, looking indignant with his nose in the air. Together they’d managed to put him off. “Day after tomorrow, doctor. I’ll check back in then.”

“Don’t bother.” John waved him off. “I’m sure you’re very busy running the government.”

With a distasteful look at both of them, Mycroft huffed and walked away.

After a moment to watch him go, Sherlock turned to John. His face was back to ‘public neutral’. “What did he say?” Reading John’s face, which was about to downplay it, Sherlock thinned his lips and interrupted. “Someone could poke your gunshot wound and you’d look less irked.”

John stayed still, watching the doors Mycroft had left through. After a tick, he sighed. “Let’s go home.”

Much to the doctor’s surprise, Sherlock only said “Yes.” With vehemence, then led them out to hail a cab.

\---

After a silent ride back, Sherlock helped John off with his coat (a sandstone Barbour to replace the one Sherlock hadn’t returned) and even went so far as to make them tea.

As he sat down, cups, biscuits and pot beside John’s chair, Sherlock sighed and locked his eyes onto John’s.

John took a jam biscuit. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

John swallowed, giving a wonky smile. “Yeah? Are you breaking up with me?” He joked, regretting it instantly.

A look of confusion swept Sherlock’s face, and was gone just as swiftly. “Many of our recent foibles would have been that much easier with more information. Since you’ve been back, we haven’t been working together… as we used to.”

John poured two cups while he listened, sugar for Sherlock, nothing in his. He handed the sweeter one over. “Of course we haven’t, Sherlock, there’s been a huge shift, er... rift. As far as things go, this is a pretty big deal. I kept a ton of stuff from you. Now that it’s out there, I’m not…” He sighed. “I’m second guessing and paranoid and…”

Sherlock waited, but John didn’t finish his thought. “How much of that is from being captive for a month, and how much is the secrets you’ve kept?”

John thinned his lips. He hadn’t looked at it that way. In fact, being captive wasn’t on his mind at all. Except when he slept. Otherwise, he feigned ignorance with himself and contributed their struggles with everything that came before he was taken. 

“You are very concerned with finding the others. In order to do that, we have to be able to coordinate. If not, I’ll be left behind with nothing, and you’ll be entirely out of your depth.”

“Okay. I get it. Where do you want to start?”

\---

There was an odd stain on the roof that John couldn’t identify, but looked somewhat like a bunch of grapes.

He was lying in Sherlock’s bed, trying to calm down enough to sleep. It had been a very odd evening. At the end of it, Sherlock (who had been freaking John out by being doting) insisted he use the bed here instead of going up the stairs to his. Somehow, miraculously, Sherlock’s bedroom was always kept fairly tidy, and empty of the chaos their living room and kitchen constantly existed in. Likely since it seemed Sherlock often forgot it existed. How often did John catch him sleeping on the couch instead?

He tried to turn over but flinched. “Shit.” He threw off the sheets to check his leg, make sure he wasn’t bleeding on the mattress. He wasn’t bleeding through his pajama trousers, and he wasn’t up for taking them off either, so he fell back with a sigh. He didn’t bother covering up again. If he were really honest with himself, he knew he didn’t want to sleep. His nightmares were back, and they had new content to show. What surprised him most was that these nightmares were not of his capture, nor his incarceration… They were all of the lab at Baskerville.

When he did manage to fall into a shallow, disturbed sleep, it was only for a couple of hours before he was sweating and panting and willing his panic to settle quickly this time.

A slow, somber note rose from the living room, leading into a sonata of which Sherlock was fond. Something improvised, that changed by little bits most times John had heard it. The violin was the tether keeping him from assuming he was back there each time he woke. Sherlock played when John tried to sleep, every night since he’d returned. It was louder here.

John’s breathing smoothed out and he closed his eyes again without being able to see the bars or the flashes of light, or hear the pitch that rattled his bones and betrayed his partner.

\---

_ John’s Dream _

First a flash of light, blinding. The sort that leaves its impressions on your sight for minutes after. Then the alarms, deafening. A barrage on the senses. And then the dark, only the emergency lights still on. Searching, with a flashlight. Sheets over the cages. Sheets. Sheets. This cage is empty. The next, a screaming animal. 

I begin to feel my skin tingling.

_It’s alright_ , I tell myself, _I am a grown man_ , I say. _Control your breathing_.

The card doesn’t work. It won’t let me out. Malfunction. I’m sure. Try the other door, make it across the lab. Access denied. 

No.

Lifeline, phone is in my pocket. Call him, call Sherlock. He can get me out. Ringing, ringing.

“Pick up, don’t be ridiculous. Pick up, come on.”

Nothing. Then hearing, something is in here. A growl. Moving, where is it?

I am  _ afraid _ .

I cover my mouth, I can’t let it hear me.

The open cage. I dash in and close it. Replace the sheet.

Ringing.

Fear and hope.

“It’s here. It’s in here with me.”

“Where are you?”

“Get me out, Sherlock…”

Then the noise, the sound as if hell has opened beneath me, above me, demons tearing under my skin and trying to get out. I think I scream. I don’t know if the echoing is inside or outside my head.

It probably doesn’t need to hurt this badly. If I didn’t try to fight it off, maybe it would be as easy as the last time, as a child.

But I do fight. It tears me apart. I feel each cell burning with the shift, my ears, head, my skull elongates, the holes in it scraping themselves into the new places they need to be. My fingers, retracting, palms making themselves denser… my body…

I throw myself against the bars and my painful, terrified yells turn to yelps and howls.

I twitch on the floor as it finishes, my tail slapping twice hard on the tile before I still entirely.

This is where things always become echoed and foggy.

There is yelling, the lights come back on. I feel my rib cage lift and fall with my huffing breaths as I try to will this into unreality.

Don’t find me.

More yelling, closer, the shht of the door, the beep of accepted ID. People come in.

They are arguing. 

I know the man, the voice, angry and insistent.

Don’t find me.

Time slows and over all else I hear the tapping of his shoes, distinct, I have heard it on any surface you can name. For reasons I do not comprehend, I am taken back to when those feet are bare, on the hardwood at home.

Home.

Dear god. Please.

Don’t find me. Don’t look.

The shoes stop, close enough to see.

Echoes.

I think I see someone put a hand on his arm. He rips it off.

The sheet is pulled back and despite everything, everything, everything… my tail thumps against the bars once, twice, and stops. A low whine escapes my maw.

This is where something changes. I know it but I do not. Something is off now.

Don’t find me, Sherlock.

But he is looking at me, as if expecting John… but all he finds is a mutt. And I can see his eyes change.

_ “You’re a liability, John.” _

Everything goes cold, especially the blood in my veins. Now it is antifreeze. I know it as plainly as if I can see it pumping, blue and poisonous inside of me. I do not die. Death would be mercy.

_ “I don’t need him.” _

No, please.

_ “You can take him.” _

God, please, Sherlock.

_ “He’s no good to me anymore. A lying, stupid animal.” _

Sherlock,  _ please _ . I need you.

My thoughts are cut off as he swings the cage closed. A faceless scientist hands him a padlock. He loops it into the door of the cage in the lab. 

It clicks.

Everything is over.

I let out a great long howl.

\---

“John!”

Sherlock woke the flailing army doctor and got a gun in the face in return. He put his hand gently on the firearm but didn’t try to move it. “John. It’s alright, we’re in Baker Street.”

John stared into the clear eyes, the calm, neutral face of Sherlock. Sherlock. He was still there. John let the gun slump out of his surprisingly steady hands. Sherlock took it and put it back on the nightstand without looking away. He was seated on the bed, his hip touching John’s bad leg just barely. 

John wiped a hand down his damp face, covering his eyes and calming his breathing. “Jesus… I could have killed you.”

“Mm. Not with that, you couldn’t.” Sherlock picked the gun back up and ejected the magazine. It was empty. Since they’d lost John’s Browning, and Miss Kar had left behind a perfectly good military issue Sig Sauer, they’d just kept it.

John huffed a laugh. “Sloppy. Should have noticed the weight.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You haven’t had it overly long.” Sherlock looked at the gun with a critical eye and put it back down.

Going over it again and again in his mind, John decided to grit his teeth and ask. “Sherlock… why are you in here?”

The detective frowned. “You were in distress.” John let his hand fall into his lap so he could look at Sherlock in the dim light. “Not good?”

John’s face went through a series of micro-expressions but in the end was too exhausted to bother. “No, it’s… fine. How did you know? I didn’t think I made much noise.”

Sherlock blinked. “I checked in. It  _ is _ my room.” He blinked again. “What did you see?”

John furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“It can be revealing, I’ve been told, of your mental state. And… talking… is supposed to help.”

John, waking up more now, sat up. “You… want me to talk? About, what? Feelings? Dreams?”

“Is that not what people do?”

“Yeah, I guess most people. But not me, really, and certainly not-” John stopped. Sherlock obviously knew what he was saying anyway. He actually looked a bit hurt. That dug into John greatly, especially considering the evening they’d just had. “Sherlock, that’s not what…”

“No,” Sherlock shifted a bit, looking down and away, “You’re right, of course.”

“Sherlock, no.” Without thinking, he put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. Surprised, he looked up. “I’m happy you asked, really. It’s just… you know this sort of stuff is-is hard for me.”

“I know.”

John took a deep breath, held it, then pursed his lips and let it out. “You really want to hear this? People whining about problems, unrelated to any case… that’s boring, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned forward a bit and clicked on his dimmed bedside light so when he sat back, John could see him clearly. “People are boring. You aren’t.”

Maybe it was how sleep deprived he was, maybe it was that he was grateful Sherlock’s violin was the reason he’d slept at all in the last week, or maybe it was the vulnerable, earnest way the familiar, pale face looked at him. Patient. Invested. It was alien there, but there it was. No matter the reason, John decided to let go, not entirely, just a bit… and bring back something they’d already discussed, even if they were interrupted midway and kept apart for a month.

“If I’m…” John started, clearing his throat. He found himself unable to keep eye contact, so he looked at his left hand. It was stiff again, shaking. “... I need you to let me do it. Don’t interrupt.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock nod just once, emphatically. “Right.” He licked his lips and fisted his hand. 

“I see the lab at Baskerville.”

Sherlock’s face moved, but his mouth didn’t open. 

“It used to be the war, before we met. After moving in here… it all stopped. I didn’t have night terrors or bad dreams anymore.” John swallowed, keeping his voice steady was taking all his energy right now. “I’m finally home, but now when I try to sleep… more often than not, I see…” John closed his eyes, the vivid account fresh in the darkness behind his eyelids. “I get off the elevator and into the empty lab.” He opened his eyes again, weary and heavy. “I see it how it happened, except when you come for me. That changes.” John bit his tongue and jumped off the damn cliff. He’d come this far. “You leave me behind.”

For what could have been seconds, minutes… John wasn’t sure… all he could hear was the traffic outside, the distant wail of a fire truck. Finally he forced himself to look at Sherlock. Fear gave way to confusion and concern. The man in front of him was pale, eyebrows clenched in guilt… eyes shining. Was he… 

“Sherlock?” The detective opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. “Sherlock, you can speak.” John replaced his hand on Sherlock’s arm. He flinched away as if he’d been burned, backing off the bed to stand a foot away. John watched him closely, growing more anxious. He didn’t understand. “Sherlock, what…”

“It was me.” Sherlock stood there, the lamplight throwing eerie shadows on the curves of his face. Stiff. He looked like a sculpture. “John, it was me. I was… I thought it was a drug, I thought we all were hallucinating the hound. I had to test it. I locked you in the lab.”

John’s mind stopped. His head seemed to fill with foam and grow weighted. “You used the…”

“No!” Sherlock moved now, stepping forward and putting up his hands. “No, John, I swear it. I didn’t know about the emitter. I didn’t know about Shifters at all, how could I? It was a mistake, it was supposed to be sound effects to stimulate the drugs I was sure were in our systems. John, I…” Sherlock reached forward, his fingers stretching… then they went limp and he took back his hand. His eyes searched and searched John’s face, chest, body… for the answers. Was this it?

John blinked and the light behind his eyes seemed to flicker back to life. “It was… an experiment. The light, the alarm… The growling. It was you, looking for a reaction to narcotics?”

“Yes.”

“You were just confirming, you were sure it was caused by weaponized chemicals?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock watched him think, and this was far more terrifying than seeing the enormous figure in the woods.

“So… you were wrong.”

Sherlock’s face twisted in confusion. “Yes.”

John looked up at him, face relaxing a bit. He shuffled back to lean against the headboard and folded his hands in his lap. “You were wrong. You were  _ dead _ wrong, not even close.”

“Yes. John, I am sorry. For all the pain I’ve caused you, for what I started that changed your life. I owe you a thousand apologies.”

“Sherlock.” John’s face cracked a smile. “You were wrong, you just admitted you were wrong.”

“John?”

“Yeah, the great Sherlock Holmes makes a confession; he is not infallible after all.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “John.” 

Putting a hand to his eyes, John started to chuckle. Then the bed sank a bit and he looked to find Sherlock right in his face. “Wha-”

“Hush.” Sherlock reached up and pinched open John’s eye, inspecting it.

“Sher- I don’t have a concussion.”

Sitting back beside John’s thigh, Sherlock frowned. “I would not leave you behind, not if I could help it.”

John’s eyes widened. “Sherlock...”

“I’m not joking. I did not mean to reveal you, and I will not leave you behind.”

“... Yeah.” John licked his lips, feeling so much more vulnerable now than he was prepared for.

“You proved the second day I’d known you that you wouldn’t either.” Sherlock read the anxiety on John’s face, more specifically the lines of it and the size of his pupils. He lowered his eyes and stood. “You need more sleep. I’m just outside if you need anything.” After helping John lay back down, he tugged the covers over him. He hesitated before standing, as if he’d forgotten something. Then he stood silently and closed the door on his way out. After half a minute, the violin softly started to flow in through the wall.

John looked at the light in the cracks of the doors, feeling disappointed but not knowing why.

\---

After the third buzz, John huffed and put down his paper. “Hold on!” He called as he took up his cane and made his way down the stairs. Sherlock was out, apparently Mrs Hudson as well. His leg was damn stiff from doing the stairs, but it wasn’t going to make anything worse or stop him moving around.

There was another buzz just as he got to the front door, and the series of faces which greeted him there were not an improvement on his mood.

“Luggage upstairs, Doctor Watson?” The haughty drawl from someone supposedly smart in his face.

“Mycroft. I’m going back upstairs and I’m going to have a cuppa. If you come in after me, that’s not my concern.” John turned and started back the way he came. “Next time, let yourself in for god’s sake, I can’t imagine you don’t have a key.”

“Hm.” Mycroft followed, his assistant and three black suited men coming in after him.

 

John sat again, taking up his mug and flexing the muscles in his leg to stretch them. “Tea?” He asked the giant knob sat across from him.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Kettle’s in there.” John nodded his head behind him and took a drink of his own.

“Charming. Go and collect the doctor’s things.” Mycroft spoke to his goons and they took off up the stairs.

“I’m not leaving.” John had enough of this garbage.

“Yes you are.”

“No…” Sherlock closed his bedroom door behind him and stepped out, still in his coat, scarf and gloves, “he isn’t. Mycroft.” He looked as if he’d gotten a snootful of garbage.

“Ah brother dear. Did the good doctor come running to you, after all?” Mycroft crossed his legs, getting comfortable, and tented his hands.

“Not unless he’s intentionally terrible of ridding himself of evidence.” Sherlock raised the CIA folder to make it plainly seen. Then he threw it on the floor where it skidded within a meter of Mycroft’s feet, splaying out papers and a passport, and a set of keys. “Get your thugs out of our flat  _ right now _ .”

“Even emotionally compromised, as you are, I trust if you think about this logically you will find it is for the good of all concerned to relocate-”

Mycroft jumped a touch as he was cut off by a fist slamming on the wall.

John stared as Sherlock’s murderous gaze held firm on his brother. “Mycroft…”

There was a creak as John’s bedroom door opened, and the barrel of a gun preempted the man coming from it. John stood. He didn’t have his own gun on him.

“Mycroft, are you serious?” John accused, moving more weight onto his cane.

The cold intelligent eyes looked up, though his head stayed still, as Mycroft silently challenged John to ask another stupid question. “I told you, by force if necessary.”

The gunmen came down the stairs slowly, eyeing Sherlock who had stayed stock still with his fist still on the wall. First mistake, the lead man looked away to point his gun at John.

A cry of pain went up as Sherlock’s arm came down with great force on his, the gun skidding away as Sherlock grabbed his hand and twisted hard, breaking his wrist. John moved just as quickly, jabbing his cane in the next face around the corner. It gave the image of a fencer and a few broken teeth and broken nose to the assailant as he fell backward and splayed in pain on the stairwell. 

Sherlock kept the man he’d injured on the floor, a knee on his spine while keeping one hand on the break and the other with the Sig Sauer pointed steadily at the last man.

John let out a pained breath through pursed lips, his leg protesting the activity, but didn’t slack. He knelt beside the man he’d hit, searched him and took out a concealed gun from his ankle, then used the handcuffs he’d also found to bind the man’s hands to each other around the banister. It didn’t look like he’d be much of a threat now, conscious but pale and dizzied from the blow to the head… better to be safe, though.

“ _ Leave. _ ” Sherlock commanded as he clicked off the safety. He followed the last man with the barrel until he was out of sight, then waited to hear him out the front door. Then he pointed it at Mycroft’s assistant. “You as well.” He sneered.

Looking unaffected, she glanced down at a very perturbed Mycroft. He nodded. “Bye.” She said simply before stepping carefully over the man cuffed to the banister and clicked out of the flat as well.

Sherlock pointed at Mycroft next. John looked between them, feeling the hair raise on his neck at the animosity and anger there. 

But Sherlock just clicked the safety back on and looked at John, who read his meaning and leaned his cane against his chair. Sherlock tossed him the gun, which he immediately checked over. There was a round in the chamber. John frowned.

“Possibly you’ll want to call an ambulance to retrieve your people.” Sherlock hissed. He took a look over what his captive was carrying and froze.

“Sherlock.” John stowed the gun behind his back and took up his cane again, taking a step forward. His flatmate didn’t react. He looked livid. “Sherlock.” John came closer but Sherlock stood. He gripped something in his leather-clad hand John initially mistook for another pair of handcuffs. Before John could see, Sherlock had rushed past him.

There was a loud jangling and John turned to see silver manacles where Sherlock had thrown them in his brother’s face. They were attached, by more chains, to a silver muzzle. John’s eyes widened. He didn’t have much time to consider it, as Sherlock was lifting his brother by his collar with a snarl.

“Sherlock, stop.”

“Of all the things you’ve done…” Sherlock spat in his brother’s paling face. “After every slimy, underhanded, self-serving… I thought I knew…” He didn’t seem to be able to finish a thought. He shook Mycroft, who only had the front bit of his shoes on the floor.

“Sherlock!”

“If you ever come into this flat again…” Sherlock shook him more violently.

“Sherlock, stop it now!” John’s cane clattered on the floor and his hands were pulling Sherlock’s arm down.

Those cold blue eyes looked down on John, Sherlock huffing his breaths, and he blinked them back to normal. He released his hands and Mycroft fell to the floor.

He scrambled up, dusting himself off. “I was trying to-”

“Stop.” John kept his hands on Sherlock’s arm as it lowered to his side. He looked at Mycroft distastefully. “Don’t speak, just leave. He could break you in half, and right now I’m afraid he just might.” Bending down despite his leg, John scooped up Mycroft’s umbrella and held it out to him.

The elder Holmes looked from his brother’s downcast face, hidden by messy curls, to John’s stony glare. He took the umbrella and left.

“Sherlock.” John sighed, looking at him. He wasn’t sure… this wasn’t something Sherlock Holmes did. But this was twice now he’d lost his composure entirely. And one common feature in both events...

Sniffing a breath in through his nose, Sherlock swept down as he moved to collect John’s cane and ushered the doctor over the groaning figure between their chairs and the bedroom door. “Sherlock-” John allowed himself, fairly ruffled at the moment, to be led in and sat on the bed while Sherlock slammed shut the door.

“Best stay in here until they’ve collected their  _ leavings _ .”

“Yeah…” John took his proffered cane and set it beside him on the bed. “Yeah… Just, Sherlock. What…”

“Really, John, putting a few things on top of it in the bin…” Sherlock paced in front of John, obviously very irritated. “Being clever? Just  _ tell _ me next time.”

“God…” John pushed his fingers into his forehead. “Please let there not be a next time.” He huffed and let his face fall into his hands and groaned. 

“Your leg.” Sherlock had stopped pacing now and was staring.

John looked down to see a slowly spreading dark patch on his trousers. “Damn. Damn it. I must’ve popped my stitches. Perfect. Great.” He looked up at Sherlock, who was still staring. “I need my med kit.”

Sherlock drew in a quick breath, signalling he’d come back out of his head. “Med kit.”

“Yeah, I’m not about to go back to the surgery for this. I am perfectly capable of stitching it myself.”

“Right. Med kit. Take off your trousers.”

“Nope.” John laughed nervously. “No, Sherlock, I am not taking off my trousers in your bedroom while you’re in here.”

Sherlock had turned to rummage in his bottom dresser drawer. “Why? You don’t intend to stitch yourself into them.”

“No. No, that’s- because it’s awkward, Sherlock.”

“I’m not going back out with those men in the living room.” Sherlock stood with a large tin box. “You must have been in your pants around other people, what’s the difference.” He brought it over and set it down, unhinging the clasp. He pulled off his leather gloves to replace them with latex ones.

“Sherlock…” John huffed, his face getting hot. “Jesus, fine, ok. Just…”

“I know what I’m doing. I may not be an army doctor but I’m fairly certain I understand the procedures of basic first aid.” Sherlock looked up at John from his knees.

“Take off your damn coat and grab me a clean pair of trousers. I’m not going to be in my all together longer than I have to be.”

\---

Chortling laughter rose in the din of the pub that evening. “God, I’m used to all this rot but, in the _flat_. Lucky I got stitched up and back on my feet by the time the ambulance came or they might’ve taken me back in.”

“Sherlock, flying off his rocker? Pull the other one.” Mike nudged John a bit with his elbow.

“Honestly Mike, you know how he is usually.”

“Yeah, mate, but you should have seen him while you were away. He looked like he’d just given up a kidney.”

“Septic?”

Mike chuckled. “Not far off.”

“But I had no idea, really, that he was… capable even. He lost the cold aloof attitude for a moment. He was livid, and panicked. And it was just a flesh wound. I'll tell you this, though, Mike... to see past all that, just briefly. It was worth a wound.” John patted his leg, hissed a little, then smiled. “God, and then with Mycroft telling me to bugger off out of the UK…”

“Between the two of you, I’m surprised you weren’t shot on a case sooner.” Mike took a long draw of his beer, and John smiled over the rim of his own glass. Mike was the only person he saw on a regular basis who hadn’t made some lewd remark or assumption about his relationship with Sherlock. “He’s changed plenty, since meeting you. He’s been coming to Bart’s at least as long as I’ve been teaching, and he’s never been around anyone as much as he is with you. Couldn’t handle it for long, mostly put up with people only when he had to.”

“And vice versa, I’ve been told. A lot of people are cruel to him before he’s done anything at all, because he has a reputation or because he’s different.”

“People don’t like knowing they aren’t as smart as they think.”

“People need to stop comparing themselves to him, then. That’s not his problem. He’s got plenty, don’t mistake me. I’ve never seen him act maliciously. He can be cutting or aloof, but he doesn’t hurt people for it’s own sake.”

“Yeah, I heard he recently helped a little girl find her pet rabbit. I’d have thought he wouldn’t take a case like that, not when there are things afoot you’re getting shot at for.”

John laughed heartily, spilling a few lines of beer over his glass. “Yeah, when that one came up he started complaining about it, but suddenly it was the most brilliant thing. He is the absolute worst when he’s bored.”

“Yes, and it doesn’t take much.” Mike added, clinking glasses and throwing back the last few gulps in the glass. “I’ll get us another round, then.”

“No,” John checked his watch and finished his own, much more full beer, “I should get back. Mycroft on the warpath as he is, if I go home too late or legless he’ll be all over me for being a bad influence on his little baby brother.”

Mike shook his head. “You’ve got bigger balls than me, I’ve met Mr British Government a few times.”

“Hm. Serving overseas will do that to you.”

“I’ll take your word.”

They stood and grabbed their jackets, John his cane, making their way out to the street and away from the noise. “This was just what I needed, thanks for coming out.” John said, his breath fogging as he offered his hand.

“Anytime, mate. Send me a line again soon.” Mike took it and shook firmly before letting go.

Then they were off, Mike to the tube and John down the four blocks back to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the god of run-on sentences, and I'm leaning into it. My excuse is that I've been reading original canon and Sir ACD is nefarious for it, too. Wanna complain, leave a comment.


	14. Misteria Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John plays peacekeeper in more ways than one and gets to lean into his medical training a bit. Sherlock begins to understand things John would rather ignore. Mrs Hudson is enjoying this probably more than she should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write, it feels really short to me, I don't know what I'm doing.
> 
> Next chapter will be out this week, dunno when, still just the 20 chapters planned. Don't think that's all there will be.

It had taken no small amount of cajoling to settle things between brothers, at least to the point Sherlock would be in the vicinity of Mycroft without spitting at him like a cat. Once again the situation looked to John to be the adult.

What had finally convinced the irate detective was one sentence from John’s last nerve.

“We can't raid the place without his connections, Sherlock, and if you're not going to compromise I'll just go with him by myself.”

 _That_ had gotten the sods attention.

Still, as John sat between them sipping his coffee, he wondered if he wasn't of a mind to just take Sherlock’s side and hope dismantling the Shifter trade alone was easier than playing referee to two Holmes’. That and thinking back to the offhand comment about the ‘Christmas dinners’ Mycroft has alluded to the second time they'd met. Maybe he should get their actual mother involved, find out if she could handle it any better than he was.

Now they were all sat in an out of the way cafe, the owner of which Sherlock had gotten out of one bind or another. Thus they’d cleared it out for the brothers to use privately for the evening.

John sipped his coffee again. “Come now, boys. I didn't drag you out to see whether people really can kill with a look.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Very well, I shall begin then.” He looked sidelong at John and frowned politely, if that's possible. “I am privy to certain knowledge pertaining to the therianthrope community, knowledge neither of your have access to. A pertinent example is what occurs when one such creature denies it’s nature overlong. Doctor Watson seemed to be an exception, but since recent events involving his exposure to the other side, I am no longer confident of that.” He looked at John. “In layman’s terms, I don’t trust you can stay in this form indefinitely anymore, nor that you’re able to control yourself once changed.”

“I'm not here to prove I'm _worthy_ or not some animalistic threat, Mycroft. I'm not the problem. _You are._ So I suggest you swallow your damn ego and prejudice, and _grow up_.” John dropped his chin and bore into Mycroft with his eyes, crossing his arms.

“If you’re such a well of knowledge on the subject, why not share some of your data and allow me to handle it myself.” Sherlock huffed, sunk in his chair and wearing his sulky attitude plainly.

“As we all well know,” Mycroft tapped his umbrella, making a show of being ‘mature’, “you often act against your own self interest, and we interfere for your sake.”

John put his hands, folded, on the table. “This is not clearing out heroin or hiding a pack of cigarettes, though I should resent the implication. I’ve lived for years without incident, a couple of them with Sherlock even, so I’d say you either give some proof I’m a threat or bugger off about it. As far as I can see, there’s no reason it’s any of your business.”

Mycroft looked from John to Sherlock and back, huffy as ever. “I suppose it’s no use to ask you to trust me.”

“Nope.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Fine.” Mycroft took a drink of tea. “There is not much I’m at liberty to share, only that your sort,” he nodded at John, “more often than not are involved in very old, very powerful families. And, that those families do not take well to people of our sort butting in. Relations are stretched as it is, abductions similar to yours are growing more frequent. Dangerous figures are surfacing around this case. Seeing as the laws they follow and those the Crown enforce do not always mingle politely, having two persons on either side as… close… as you two breeds conflict. You have already, no doubt, noticed difficulty surrounding your collaboration efforts since the good Doctor’s nature was revealed.” Despite himself, John was reminded of the moment on the country road, when he very nearly followed a group of fae across the veil. There was no way Mycroft missed that tick. “Sherlock is not the only one to become aware of your spiritual existence, Doctor Watson. The community at large keeps its citizens close. I will not be the last to suggest you relocate, and those who come after me won’t be as subtle about it.”

“Why in the hell wouldn’t you just tell us all that to start off?” John ran a hand over his face.

“Would it have changed your mind?”

“Of bloody course not! Nothing was going to! But we’re the ones who have to deal with this.” John fought the urge to get up or throw up his hands. “For chrissakes Mycroft.”

“Well this has been vexatious.” Sherlock started, putting his hands on the table and standing. “If you could just send along whomever is your tactician at their earliest convenience…”

“Sherlock, _sit down_.” John commanded. The detective frowned deeply but complied. He wouldn’t listen forever, so John took a breath and dug in. “You’re not going to pull another stunt like that with us, right?”

“No.” Mycroft drawled, looking as if he runneth over with spite.

“You’re going to lend us your help to take down the zoo?”

Looking less perturbed at that question, Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Then-”

“Apologize.”

John looked over, not convinced he’d heard Sherlock correctly. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock, curled forward like a perturbed child and looking through his curls at his brother, didn’t react to John. Instead, he answered Mycroft’s silence. “Apologize, now.”

The elder Holmes put his hackles up, but nodded. With some sense it was forced, he slowly spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“Not to _me._ ” Sherlock prodded, in his trademark ‘most obvious thing in existence’ style.

Mycroft wrinkled his brow, then looked mechanically over at John. “Fine. My apologies.”

Sherlock read his brother’s face for a second, then slowly cracked the most shit-eating grin John had seen to date. “Happy that’s resolved.” He chimed, superior tone evident.

“Right.” John cleared his throat. “Now… on to the matter at hand. Sherlock and I have gathered enough information to have a distinct picture as to where the zoo is…”

\---

After the hours it had taken them all to agree on a working strategy, the sun had long since set. Standing outside the little cafe, John blew on his hands and rubbed them together.

“Sherlock, could you go ahead. Get us a cab?”

Not looking fond of that idea, Sherlock eyed his brother. “Sure?”

“I'll be fine, I just want a quick word privately with your brother.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but kept silent and went off towards the main road to flag a cab.

John watched for a moment, pulling his collar up against the chill of the London winter night. Then he turned to Mycroft, who looked sour but receptive. “Listen…” John took a breath to keep his composure. He spoke with care and control. “You have been on me since the _day_ I met Sherlock. I've been around enough to understand why, at least to start. But now I'm his family as much as you are. And you can accept that and start working with me again, or you can keep trying to get rid of me. I'm prepared for either. My point here, Mycroft, is that I'm bloody tired of your petty bullying and I'm not doing this again. Not even once more. The next time you piss him off for this reason, the next time he drops you on your arse… I won't help you back into his life.” John used his unique talent for looking down at people taller than him. “Goodnight, Mycroft.”

Before John could turn away, Mycroft extended a hand. John blinked, but took it.

“I am sorry, John. It has been so very long with just the two of us. He's never had anyone else he could trust, though he has tried.”

John huffed. “Then you're not paying attention. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Mike… Sherlock has people, good people, supporting him.” John pocketed his hands and looked at Mycroft carefully, his face turning back to neutral. “Makes me wonder, between the two ‘geniuses’, how many people are there you simply don't see. You must have at least one. Even you.”

Mycroft seemingly had nothing to say, blinking with a twinge of surprise on his face.

“ _Goodnight,_ Mycroft.” John said again, with finality. Then he left the elder Holmes to the black Sedan that pulled up, walking towards the Main Street to find Sherlock.

\---

Having a gun in his hand, waiting for the signal to move, John felt real again. Grounded. His leg was still on the mend, of course, but he’d gotten a brace to leave him use of both hands. It was cumbersome, and not as helpful as his cane, but when doing a raid he had to prioritize.

Blood pumped in his head as he watched the commander count down with his fingers; this was it. He was here again, only now it wasn’t a nightmare, a reminder of helplessness. He was going to get them out.

He looked over at Sherlock, who had opted out of his usual coat for osprey body armor to match the one John and the rest of the team wore. They weren’t going in first, but John was to be close behind the first team. He was the only one who knew definitively which people there were hostile and which were victims, and he’d assigned himself to be chief medical officer on this mission. They’d sent another army doctor and a couple of veterinarians in case any Shifters were unable to shed in the confusion, but those three wouldn’t come in until the place was secured and safe.

He gave the CO a nod, and the striker tossed in a smoke grenade. They couldn’t use a traditional flashbang because of how sensitive Shifters’ senses were. It could permanently injure them.

Then it was a flurry of activity, nearly nostalgic for John. He was following with practiced familiarity, calling out signals and orders, carefully assessing the short-lived frantic opposition of the guards as they moved from the entrance to the main hall.

This perspective, from atop the rails instead of beneath them, made John feel sick about every trip he’d taken to a normal zoo in primary. If half the captives weren’t shedded, it would seem like a first class facility like any other high profile attraction.

About to begin helping the other Shifters, John was nearly knocked over as Sherlock rushed past him.

“John! There!”

Following Sherlock’s line of sight as he took off after him, John saw the proprietor briefly as she moved past a window above them. She was high up, running across the room in an enclosed gangway.

John pushed himself to move faster, gritting his teeth, but he was already slowing. His leg wouldn’t cooperate, even though he’d been able to remove the stitches. He cursed as Sherlock rounded the stairs into the guard tower and vanished from sight.

 

Sherlock held his handgun to the side as he pounded up the narrow staircase towards the gangway. He hadn’t considered John wouldn’t be right behind him, caught up in the rush of the chase.

“Stop!” He commanded as the woman they were chasing came into view, about two hundred feet ahead. There was nowhere for her to go but the roof, and the only helicopter up there was theirs.

She stopped at the end of the plank, before the ladder to the roof, and turned. Sherlock thought she was giving up until he saw her grin and her eyes flash. He pushed himself harder.

She ripped the fur lining out of the collar of her coat, the speckles of an entire pelt of some sort of cat. She threw it over her head, the paws wrapping around her neck, and the pelt melded into her.

Sherlock skidded to a halt on the ringing metal floor and watched in dubiety as she expanded into a pale, spotted bear. He barely had time to raise his hands in defense before she was on him.

His head knocked back hard against the metal grating and his arms were locked upward, holding the mass of dense fur off him. He didn’t know where his gun was. “Agh!” Sharp, hot pain seeped from his shoulder, and he scrambled to get leverage with his legs, ‘ _push her over_ ’.

“Warden!”

The weight on Sherlock shifted, the growling maw raised to look in the direction Sherlock’d come.

“Get off him, now, or I will shoot you.” John warned. He stood back a ways, a safe distance, with his gun leveled and steady.

She roared, making Sherlock flinch back, and raised up as John fired. Backing up a few steps, she rose her paw to her face and collapsed forward on her knees, the pelt resting on her human-again shoulders. She drew back her shaking hand to look at the blood running over it. There was a deep graze in her cheek. She looked up at John with contempt.

“You dirty mutt-shagger…” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes as John moved slowly toward Sherlock, and the pelt once again melded into her. Now, though, she grew large, long feathers. As a condor, she used her beak and talons to crawl her way up the ladder like a gigantic parrot.

John knelt beside Sherlock and spoke into his radio. “The bird coming up on the roof is the warden, don’t let her escape.” He looked over Sherlock carefully and helped him sit up. “What the _hell_ Sherlock? We brought a whole damn team in for this, why would you run off on your own?” John handed off his gun so Sherlock could cover them while he got out his med kit.

“There wasn’t time, they’re too slow.” Sherlock huffed as John cut away the fabric around his wounded shoulder. “Careful.” He hissed as John cleaned the gashes. They weren’t too deep, wouldn’t need stitches at least.

“Yeah? I guess that includes me now, too, doesn’t it?” John retorted in a low, dark tone. He put aside the bloody wipes and took out his gauze and tape, lifting Sherlock’s arm so he could wrap it around properly.

Sherlock thinned his lips, regretful. “John, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah, you did.” John concentrated on his task. “It’s unacceptable for you to have to consider things outside of the case while you’re working.”

“John-”

“Captain Watson, come in.” Their radios buzzed.

Sighing, John clicked the button to respond. “Watson here, go ahead.”

“Area secured, we need medical attention for the civilians.”

“Copy. On my way.” John clicked off the speaker and finished taping Sherlock’s shoulder. He grasped the railing to help him stand.

“John, let me-”

Heaving himself up, John shot a look down at the detective. “No. Just… I have work to do.” He left his gun with Sherlock and limped off back towards the office.

\---

“-not, because you’re being a condescending arse, and not in the usual way!” John stormed into 221B, tearing off his osprey vest and throwing it down inside the door.

Mrs Hudson came forward to greet them but stopped when she saw them in the midst of a row. “Oh dear…”

Sherlock wasn’t far behind, his own equipment discarded on the way back in favor of his coat, which he kept on. “Just listen, I can explain it another way.” He tramped after John like a puppy.

“I don’t want to hear this, it won’t make a difference when it really matters.” John took the stairs two at a time, desperate enough to get away from this fight that he hurt his leg badly. He didn’t care. He just wanted to take off the brace, shower and _go to sleep_. Bugger the nightmares, bugger the other set of stairs he’d need to take to his own room, bugger the gunshot wound.

“John!” Sherlock called after, face raw with guilt and anguish.

“Dear, what happened? You boys were getting along so well before you left.” Mrs Hudson wrung her hands with worry.

“I said something foolish…” Sherlock said, not looking away from the top of the stairs where John had disappeared.

“Well…” Mrs Hudson put her hands on her hips. “Go apologize.”

“I _have_.”

“Then you’ve not done it properly.”

He turned to her, miffed. “I don’t know _how_.”

Simply smiling as if she knew something, Mrs Hudson went up and patted his arm. “You’ll figure it out. I’ll bring you boys up some supper in a bit, you’ve had a long day.” She chuckled as she went off to her own flat. “Just this once. I’m not your housekeeper.”

Sherlock blew a huff out his nose and walked swiftly up the stairs. He found John sitting on the edge of the tub, his thick trousers off (he wore a light pair underneath as cushioning) and working on removing the brace that was obviously digging into him hard after all the strain.

“Get out, Sherlock, just because I can’t walk away doesn’t mean I’ll sit idle and listen to you.” He said, not looking up.

Sherlock knelt in front of him, eyes running over the brace and identifying what John was having issues with. “You’ve exacerbated it, the top hinge will unjam if you start at the center.”

“I’m a bloody doctor, I can remove a brace on my own.”

“You can. But I can get it off in at least half the time.”

John stared daggers but sat back. “Fine.”

Sherlock nodded, loosening the ring in the middle first. John let out a hiss as it retracted from where it was biting into his skin through the fabric underneath. “Will you tell me why you’re so angry?”

“You already know.”

“Yes. But it will be easier if I hear it from your perspective.”

John ran a hand over his face, flinching when the second ring loosened. “Sherlock, you don’t _eat_ on a case because it slows you down. This wound will heal and I’ll be able to keep up again in a month or two. But in the meantime, I can’t watch your back if you take off like that, and it’s not unlikely I’ll be hurt again and be unable to keep up at all. So where does that leave me?”

“Oh.” Sherlock undid the last cuff and slid the whole thing off John’s leg. “Oh.” His eyes lit up as he looked at John, while the doctor carefully, tenderly, stretched his leg out and back and rubbed it. “Obvious.”

“What?” John gripped the sink for balance and stood, testing the weight on his bad leg and cursing himself for running up the stairs, among other things.

“Left behind. You’ve already told me. You think I will leave you behind, or not allow you to work with me. But even if you can’t follow me, there are things you can do to be part of my work. I can’t do it, not nearly as well, without you. ‘Incandescent’, I believe was the term I used before.”

“Yeah okay.” John was concentrating much harder than necessary on his leg.

“I snuffed up today, but it was a mistake. I made mistakes today. There can be a balance if either of us are compromised somehow.”

“Bal-” John looked incredulously at his flatmate. “Am I speaking to a doppelganger? Who somehow thinks Sherlock bloody Holmes is capable of compromise?”

Sherlock made a sardonic face. “How long have you known me, and how many things you thought I was incapable of have I done in that time?”

“Right. Yeah.” John licked his lips.

“I know it isn’t what you meant but doppelgangers are unseelie, John.”

“What? No-”

“They are, it’s imperative you don’t give them or any other fae your or my full names.”

“Sherlock, that isn’t-”

“Mycroft Siger Holmes, if it comes up.”

“Sherlock, neither of us is selling your brother to anyone, otherworldly or not.”

Sherlock stood and blinked down with concern. “If you can be with me, I want you with me. Here, on a case, in my life. I want that understood. Even if I seem to forget at times, that is a mistake.”

John stared for a bit, heat rising up his collar. “Out.” Sherlock let his head tilt slightly. “Out, I need a shower, that’s why I came in here.”

“You’re not angry anymore.”

“No. It’s fine. Get out.”

Left with an unfamiliar and unsure feeling, Sherlock backed up and allowed himself to be shut out, the door locking audibly. He stood there, trying to think, until he heard the water turn on. Then he rounded back into the flat, hung his coat on the hook where it lived when not on his person, and went into his bedroom.

Neither door opened until an hour and a half later, when Mrs Hudson was calling them to come eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep things balanced between action (cases included) and relationship progression. Let me know if you think of anything, or even if it's just good or bad.
> 
> Mormor will be a background thing but it will be a thing. It's coming. Don't worry.


	15. The Seven Compass-Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a lot of exploratory thoughts, not least among them 'why is Sherlock better at this than me'. They also sort of vacation in Ireland but not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, and the next will be quite long. So it'll take a bit for me to finish and post it. Apologies. I will do my best to have it up in less than a week's time.

“So…” John and Sherlock poured over the report from the raid. Rather, John snatched a part of it to read while Sherlock jostled the papers and pictures around, taking scraps of data he decided on before swiftly moving on. “A baker’s dozen, hardly capacity for that place, were liberated and returned to several different countries after being interviewed. According to your brother, the list of missing Shifters suspected to be victims of this ring is close to fifty. We’ve barely scratched that number. How many can we track?”

“Seven. Bluebell marked the others at your auction and herself so you could find them. We need to go over rules prior to starting that off. There are bigger targets to find. This can’t be the only zoo Moriarty is keeping.”

“Shit. They didn’t catch the warden, after all that?”

Sherlock looked up from the blueprint he was scanning. “She wasn’t a Shifter. What was she?”

“I don’t know.” 

Frowning, Sherlock took the page from John. “How am I supposed to collect any data if all my resources are splattered with false leads? I may as well scrape through the children’s section at the library for all the good research will do.”

John huffed, used to Sherlock’s lack of respect for who possessed things between them. “Sherlock, we should look for the ones we have a direct link to. We can’t leave them where they are longer than we need to.”

“Hm. Maybe you’re right. If we find her, Bluebell can link us to reliable data.”

“I’m not talking about _data_ , Sherlock. I’m talking about people being kept prisoner. If we can do something to help, that’s our priority.”

Sherlock looked up, his ‘I’m on a case, John’ expression in full possession of his face. “Getting one step ahead of Moriarty, finding the link to the center of his web, is my priority.”

John started to get cross but stopped himself, putting the file down on Sherlock’s desk and retreating to his chair. Sherlock watched him but didn’t comment, and soon was back to looking over the file. John watched him, thinking. He’d proven beyond a doubt that he cared, he _could_ care, very deeply. But it seemed like it was only for a small section of people, or something he could usually put aside. So that begged the question in John’s mind; was Sherlock actually as callous as he seemed at times like these? Or was he just doing things the only way he understood how?

“Tell me the rules.” Sherlock straightened up and looked over. “Tell me the rules for dealing with the fae. It’s long past time we start tracking them down, unless you have a better idea. You’re getting your cast off this week, I’m capable enough with my cane for now. And the faster we start on this, the less likely another irate family member will show up and try to kill us.”

Sherlock, silent and calculating, walked over. “Which do you know already?”

John smiled, a little surprised there wasn’t more push back. “You told me the one about giving your full name, I know they don’t like iron, salt or bread. I know not to walk into a fairy ring and what one of those looks like. And from what I’ve seen, I know what gnomes and sylphs look like.”

“Hm.” Sherlock sat, pulling his legs up and tenting his fingers atop his knees. “Important basics, for now. Do not say ‘thank you’, though do be polite. Do not accept or do favors of any kind. Do not eat their food or use their gifts, should you be given any. Give any weapon you carry a name.”

“I have to name my gun?” John asked sardonically.

“If you’d rather it not work against you, yes.”

“How am I supposed to get them to lead me anywhere if I can’t ask for favors?”

“Bluebell worked it out, but basically that’s what spells are. A fair exchange with fae for power. She hypothesized that’s why the circle we found in London hadn’t been activated; the few fae that could be found in the city wouldn’t agree to do whatever spell had been planned.”

“Circle? Who was the caster? It can’t have been Moriarty, he’s Sight-less.”

“I don’t know. We didn’t have time to look further into it.”

“Well, neither do we. We need to start looking, where do we do that?”

Sherlock grinned and linked his fingers. “Ireland.”

\---

“Since Bluebell used sylphs for this spell and they are attuned to the East compass point, we need to go to a place she’d started it, face that direction, and prove we… or rather, you… are worthy of picking up her trails. For that we need this…” Sherlock showed John a small black feather that made him jolt his face back. It reeked of Shifter. “And this.” He then took out a golden watch. “It’s the offering, they get it once the spell is complete. It’s not intricate enough to put them off, and gold is a favored item to the fae. We need to leave the watch in a fairy ring before we start.”

John tried his airline tea, spat it back into the cup, and put it down in disgust. “We can’t go into a fairy ring.”

“Well, we _shouldn’t_ go into one. But we’re going to.” Sherlock was looking out the window. They were travelling through a regular airline this time, since it wasn’t a terribly long way and honestly it was nice to do something relatively normal for a change. “Apparently it’s safer if you’re shifted.”

John frowned. “Well I’m not doing that.” He looked off to the side.

Sherlock turned to look at him. “Why not?”

“I don’t like to. I lived most of my life without it, and the parts I didn’t weren’t exactly pleasant. No.”

Sherlock honed in on him, making John’s skin prickle. “Since getting back, does it ever become difficult not to?” He spoke low and careful.

John turned in surprise. He did not want to answer honestly, but with Sherlock that hardly mattered. “That has nothing to do with it.” He cleared his throat and spoke normally again. “How are we going to do this thing safely, then?”

Sherlock watched him a moment longer before looking out the window again. “Much of this won’t be safe. Isn’t that what makes it fun?”

\---

Trekking over the Irish countryside was a little harder than John had anticipated, the feeling of the alder cane Sherlock had given him after they landed strange in his hands. He couldn’t adjust the height of the solid wood, but Sherlock had measured it properly for at least flat ground, and insisted his would be safer than aluminium. They’d left their phones in an airport locker, along with anything else higher tech than the compass Sherlock had with him.

Now he was sat on a log, civilization miles away, taking a draw of his canteen as Sherlock found a high place to look out from. Which of course had nothing to do with looking cool. John had to admit he was impressed as he watched him climb a tree, his overlong coat hung on a lower branch to keep from getting caught.

He was also doing his best to ignore the Neighbors, which were everywhere and mostly aware he could see them. Some were monstrous and terrifying, basically a block of void with random eyes set everywhere. There were also wood nymphs, which liked to point and giggle behind their branches, and be more tree or more human-like depending on their mood that second. Small pudgy brown things ran around on twig legs, something shimmering silver stayed way out in the woods, drifting around in John’s periphery but never enough to make anything out. He could also almost always hear bells, far off and echoed so he couldn’t pinpoint a direction. At one point, something huge flew overhead and John was tempted to ask if Sherlock had seen the shadow it cast. But he didn’t. All of this made him anxious; like Pandora’s box he felt he should not open this part of his life any further or really at all. He didn’t like what it was doing to him, and he didn’t like how distant Sherlock seemed the longer this secret was out in the open. Not on a personal level, but on another one John didn’t understand. Mycroft’s warning rang in his head. ‘ _Having two persons on either side as close as you two breeds conflict._ ’ It wasn’t the first such warning he’d heard. The first of many was from Harry: ‘ _Don’t do that, don’t ever do that again! If you start you won’t ever stop, and you won’t be human anymore! You’ll_ never _be human again!_ ’ Between the disappearance at the beach and those frantic words, the idea had stayed with him the rest of his life; you can’t have both. And if he kept going the way he was, the human in his life is what he’d lose.

“John.”

Starting out of his mind, John looked up. Sherlock had rolled up his sleeves for climbing, several twigs and leaves stuck to his clothes and one in his hair. He was looking down at John the way he’d made a habit of lately; with an odd sort of regard and curiosity. John had yet to see him look at anything else like that, to compare.

“Yeah?” John swallowed.

Blinking, Sherlock didn’t move. “We’ll get there around dusk. It will be dangerous, that’s an active time for Neighbors.”

John’s attention was caught by something hissing as soon as Sherlock had addressed their kind; a cat. It looked normal enough. John looked away quickly, but then… Sherlock seemed to see it, too.

“Sherlock, can you…”

“Yes. It’s a regular cat.”

“ _No such thing._ ” The cat said, affronted.

John had heard cats speak before, not in human tongue but at the least he understood them sometimes when they made noise. No other animals seemed to have that skill, or if they did, John hadn’t seen it.

“It’s not happy with you.” John said, unsure if Sherlock would also understand it.

“ _I should say not. What a rude human you’ve brought to us, Heira.”_

Sherlock looked at it a moment, then bowed politely and fully at the waist, as he might at a formal celebration. “Apologies.”

John took in the surreal sight, even as a small lizard-like fae creature climbed up to his shoulder. “Um.” He looked apprehensively at Sherlock. He’d never spoken to anything fae before except the sylphs that had nearly led him away to god knows where. Sherlock nodded, so he cleared his throat and tried anyway. “Is that a name, ‘Heira’?”

The cat blinked and sat up on the branch it was perched upon. _“That is the title of your kind.”_

John regretted acknowledging the cat immediately as a chatter began around him, most definitive of which was a little creature the size of a sparrow that looked like a little naked girl with bird’s wings and taloned feet. With her tiny humanoid hands, she took John’s finger and raised it, tugging gently. _“No one’s ever taken you there before? You don’t have family? How silly!”_

John was caught now, staring and taken aback. The others seemed to crowd him, now he’d started speaking to them, they clamored to touch him and some even played or sang. _“Not many of the Heira left!” “It’s so refreshing you can see us.” “The humans don’t keep the old ways much anymore…” “Come and play! We can teach you everything!”_

“I’m afraid I can’t let you have that.” The little bird-girl dashed away at the last second as Sherlock put his hand on John’s, guiding his outstretched finger back into a fist. John looked up. “Not as bad as last time. That’s good.”

“Yeah…” John’s only connection to the human world out here was Sherlock. He decided mentally to never try speaking to the fae unless he was close by. Clearing his throat, he turned to the cat. It seemed to be amused, watching this. “You have my gratitude. But we should go.”

An ear twitched as the cat regarded him. _“You should use that feather, you know. Getting lost out here is the last thing many humans ever do.”_ It looked at Sherlock pointedly before jumping down and meandering out of sight. _“And don’t dawdle. Wind spirits are known for impatience and eccentricity.”_

Sherlock helped John to his feet and tugged him along to recover his coat. “What did it say?”

“Um.” Sherlock only let go of his hand to throw his coat back on… “It said to use the feather, to be quick, and it called me ‘Heira’. Any idea what that means?”

“Not a clue.” Sherlock reached into his pocket and took the little feather out. He’d been keeping it in a pouch.

When John looked up again, the area was empty. The only movement he could see was the silver thing wandering far off. He blinked. He hadn’t seen anything like this before, only in the city were Neighbors sparse.

“Problem?” Sherlock was taking the feather out, handing it to John.

“They’re all gone.”

“Hm.”

John took the feather. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Apparently, ask it to show us to where we want to go and drop it.”

“Why does it smell like a million Shifters?”

“No idea.”

“Right.” John cleared his throat. “Lead us to where the spell we need starts.” Then he tipped his hand so the little black feather dropped out of his palm. At first, it drifted down like a regular feather, but then the wind kicked up. John couldn’t see anything controlling the breeze, but he started forwards after it. You could easily brush off the feather’s path as just caught in the wind, though it took a distinct path through the trees.

\---

As predicted, the feather finally fell to earth and rested still around dusk. John hadn’t seen any fae during that part of their trek.

Sherlock stepped past him and scooped the feather up, replacing it in the pouch and then his pocket. “The fairy ring is just there.”

Sure enough, as John stepped onto a little hill, he saw a little ring of tiny mushrooms in the moss in the dim light.

“Right. Give me the watch.”

“No.”

“Sherlock…” He had to grab the detective’s arm as he tried to sweep past him. “I thought you said it was safer for me to do it.”

“No…” Sherlock turned, looking annoyed with his hands in his pockets. “I said it was safer for a _Shifter_ to do it.”

“Right, and out of the two of us…” John started, huffy.

_“Want a hand?”_

John looked up to see a Neighbor the size of a child, with small horns and a cloth hiding it’s face, dressed in robes. He got a bad feeling from it. He tried to ignore it.

_“That’s not nice. Why don’t you introduce yourself? I am a friend.”_

John stepped in front of Sherlock, facing him. “Let’s have it.” He put out his hand. He had a sick feeling in his gut they needed to finish this task before long, and especially before the sun was completely down.

_“Sssssherlock is a nice name. Sounds delicious.”_

“Fae-folk can’t eat regular humans, who don’t have the Sight.” John said, trying to pass it off as a comment to Sherlock, who frowned deeply.

“You can’t have it, let me pass. It’ll be quick.”

“Sherlock, give me the watch _right now_.” John commanded.

_“Rude folks don’t get far in life, my friend.”_

John’s skin crawled and he didn’t have to look to tell the creature was directly next to him.

Sherlock huffed and grabbed John’s outstretched hand. He walked swiftly, John in tow, directly to the fairy ring. “Sherlock wait-” But the detective was already pulling out the gold chain of the watch.

_“I want that!”_

The voice right behind them changed to a low, demanding hiss and John felt like it was reaching into his spine with cold, ethereal claws as they entered the ring of mushrooms, the light fading quickly around them.

Then Sherlock dropped the watch.

He turned directly towards the creature, which had grown ten feet into a thin, black creature with spiral horns and a protruding maw beneath the veil over it’s face.

“This is a gift for the sylphs we are contracted with. Begone.”

John watched, transfixed, as with that simple phrase the creature seemed to dissipate. In it’s place was a little ball of black light with eyes like fireflies. It seemed to blink, and then it floated off into the woods like a wisp of fire.

Sherlock tugged John out of the circle, careful to avoid trampling the mushrooms, and grinned down at him. He was completely smug. Usually that would infuriate John.

“Brilliant.”

“Did you know even people without Sight can temporarily see what you do, in certain circumstances? Inside a fairy ring is one of those circumstances.”

John stared adoringly for another moment, until the darkness made it difficult to see. The other fae still hadn’t come back. “Now what?”

“Now we wait.”

\---

The realization that, after all the flack he’d given Sherlock, John couldn’t remember any of the constellations from primary was undercut by his unvoiced agreement that they could still appreciate the stars. He hadn’t really taken the time to look, properly look, when he’d been outside the city where he could actually see them… since he’d served. Even though this was dangerous in different ways, many he didn’t understand, John felt a lot safer now, here, than he had in the desert.

They were sat on the moss, facing east as they’d been told, looking up at the brilliant night sky. Alone. The noises of birds and insects and other ‘normal’ things were an undertone, of course, but there weren’t any Neighbors. It had been about an hour since the sun went down. John had paced after a time, but Sherlock insisted it wouldn’t do any good unless he was faced east. So with a humph, he’d sat down beside Sherlock and followed his gaze upwards.

“I mentioned once, in passing, that my first case was the murder of Carl Powers.”

John looked over at this random-seeming break in the silence, and at Sherlock's apparent opinion that 'in passing' meant 'during an ongoing murder game'. “Yeah. Possibly Moriarty’s first murder, if we were optimistic people.”

“I suppose it depends on how you define a case. Certainly that was the first where I attempted to engage my deductions towards solving a murder.”

“So…” John sat back again, knowing exactly what Sherlock wanted. “What then was your first case by a different definition?”

“The first time someone engaged my services was before the death occurred, actually. In Uni. You’ve met Sebastian, the other students in my year had comparable attitudes towards me. Except another man, who seemed as friendless as I was at the time. Victor Trevor.”

John felt an odd twinge in his gut, but ignored it. “So you have had friends before.”

“Hm. I certainly thought so at the time.”

John opened his mouth to ask for clarification when he saw a light drift toward him. He closed it again as a sweet, warm breeze brushed his hair back. Then the light expanded as he gazed at it, into something the size of a house cat. It was beautiful, and exactly as he remembered from the road in Sussex; a genderless, slender humanoid with a ribbon-like tail in place of legs and wings without feathers, similar to a penguins, coming out it’s back. It’s face and hair joined seamlessly, the latter changing length as it fluttered around the giggling sprite.

“I think that’s a sylph.” John said for Sherlock’s benefit, unable to look away.

The fae creature put a finger to it’s mouth and winked, flying past him to the fairy ring and diving excitedly onto the watch. It clutched it and snuggled against it like a long lost pet, then flew out of the circle. Or at least, it made the attempt.

Completely outside the ring except where it’s hands held the gold trinket, the sylph glared at John. He blinked and moved his head back.

Sherlock hugged his knees into his chest and smiled broadly. “Are they trying to take the watch?”

John looked over at the detective, flummoxed. “Yeah. Not too happy they can’t, either.”

“Don’t worry.” Sherlock chuckled. “Blue warned me about this, it’s a part of the test. If she was a sub-par spellcaster, they could just take it without helping us. Of course they’d try. But it seems she knew what she was doing after all.”

John turned back to the sylph and thinned his lips. “We have a deal, you can collect once it’s done.” He said firmly. He tuned out Sherlock’s little laughs off to the side.

The sylph stuck out it’s tongue at him but put the watch back and flew at him, making his short hair go every which way, before resting around his shoulders. _“Heira, I will assist you. But only if you show me something impressive. That should not be hard for your kind, hm?”_

Sherlock, still grasping his legs like a teenager at a sports day on the grass, watched with interest even though he could only catch half of the conversation. John started to ask him for help when the wind kicked up in his face, full of innocent laughter. _“Your human friend cannot aid this task. That would be cheating.”_

John scrunched up his face. He wasn’t shifting. Was that what the sprite was asking for? Something impressive…

 _“Allow me to help, then.”_ With a gust of wind, the sylph seemed to be gone. John stood up and looked around for it. Sherlock cocked his head, still smiling, but didn’t move otherwise.

Through the trees, past where he could see, a most lilting and beautiful song started to flow. He could almost see the notes run languorously around him, and he felt like he was floating in a sun-warmed pool. Everything else fell away but the song and the calm safety it instilled.

_“Come.”_

The song beckoned.

_“The way is open.”_

John took a step.

_“Life will be much easier in our world.”_

John stopped, Something was wrong. He couldn’t think, everything was lulling and foggy. If he really tried, he could still feel the stiffness of his wounded leg, so he let his hand rest directly over the place the bullet had torn through and _pushed_.

When he blinked, his mind started to clear and he could see the lights fading and the music growing more and more distant. He shook his head violently, hissing as the pain came through. He didn’t let up just yet, though.

 _“Hm. Very good.”_ The sylph said from somewhere behind his ear.

John felt the rush of air and things seemed to return to normal as the sprite danced around him, and his body felt suddenly very heavy. He took his hand back to steady himself as he intentionally fell backwards on his arse. He leaned forwards, pushing his face into his hands and breathing slowly.

“I’d say that’s proof enough.”

John didn’t look up, but smiled slightly into his hands at the detective’s baritone. “Another test, huh? And you didn’t intervene this time.”

“No. That took some self control. But you did better than perhaps I’ve been giving you credit for.”

“Hng.” John took a deep breath and sat up straight to look over to where Sherlock hadn’t budged. “Disagree. I don’t think I could have done this before.”

“Well, best not to take chances. Look, it’s paid off.” Sherlock pointed to a dirt devil kicking up a few feet away from them in a patch of earth. Both men got to their feet as it calmed to inspect what had been left.

It was a map drawn in the dirt, the style something akin to an old parchment you’d see in a museum. John didn’t recognize any of the markers on it, and the coastlines even seemed… wrong, somehow.

“Can you read it?”

“Somewhat. Keep quiet a moment.”

John blinked, but stood silent and studied the drawing himself. He wondered if they should copy it down, and huffed as he remembered they couldn’t take a picture.

“Good, done.” Sherlock said after a minute of staring and circling and bending over until his nose nearly touched the ground all around it. As soon as he’d said it, the wind kicked up again and wiped it bare, just another patch of soil. John could hear giggling from somewhere in the trees. When he turned to look, Sherlock was already hiking off the way they’d come.

“Hold on!” John called, grabbing his cane and following. “Is that it?” He huffed when he’d caught up.

“Of course.”

“What? Don’t we need to follow them?”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock!” He pulled on the detective’s arm to stop him walking. “It’s pitch dark out here, it’s not safe to speed through the wilderness like that, and you need to explain what the hell we’re doing.”

Sherlock looked down, obviously unhappy they’d stopped, but stuck his hands in his pockets and answered. “The map just leads to way points. We will meet the fae in those places and follow them to our marked Shifters from there. None of those points is in this country, so we need to go back and regroup. Once we do, seeing as you passed their little test, we can hand off the feather to Mycroft’s people and split our job in half. He’ll be able to show the feather as proof of the spells contract.

“As for walking around at night, would kipping in for a rest be safer? I doubt it. So we should move and get back to the airport quickly.”

“Fine, we can walk. But you need to slow the fuck down. I’m navigating terrain and this cane and my leg all at once, so work on your compromising skills and stop leaving me in your dust. At least until I can walk normally again.”

Sherlock blinked. Then his expression softened. “Being considerate will be more difficult than I’d hoped. I’m not used to thinking it’s worth my time.”

John smirked, equal parts annoyed and bemused. “Even you can figure it out, eventually.”

Sherlock looked off into the woods. “We should move.”

John followed his eye line but saw nothing. “Yeah. Let me go ahead, maybe.”

\---

Mycroft looked over the childish doodle his brother had texted him, disregarding the airplane’s policy against using mobiles in the air. He huffed with disapproval and forwarded it.

Beside him, where she’d been casting a simple charm with her blackberry, the brunette’s device was interrupted.

“Sir?” She trilled, looking up at her boss.

“Pick one. You’re going to help my baby brother find his lost sheep.”

Smiling slightly, a dark grey muddle in the air behind her expanded into something solid (at least to her) and reached over her shoulder to touch the device she was working with. A spell shot out of it and off, through the wall and out of sight. Then she pulled up the text message and opened the image to assess it. “Yes sir.”

She returned to clicking furiously, the creature at her back poking along with her on the tiny keyboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen Victor Trevor referenced in several fics before now, but now that I've read the original case involving him (not sure if that's the only one he's in, haven't read all the ACD stuff. Not remotely. I've read maybe a handful) I'm sort of curious about his image in fic thus far. Hm. Maybe we'll see my take on the character a bit more in future chapters.
> 
> Also.
> 
> I just wanted to say, for those who have been with me from the start and those just joining in now (whenever 'now' is for you, the reader), I appreciate you. I started this to get out an idea, and to see if I could. If it weren't for the kudos and bookmarks and lovely, lovely comments, I might have left this project off.
> 
> So, I guess I want to say that as much as it is for me, this work is for you. Yes, you. The person reading this right now. You're awesome. Also, did you do something with your hair today? It looks great.


	16. A Drama In Four Acts: Part 0, A Prelude to the Dramatics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Seeing as this chapter is going to be so very long, I have decided to break it into five parts. I think it's better to do it this way, so I can update more often. It's making the chapter numbers go wonky on me and that's irksome, but I think... with time... I will get over it.

When John slumped into 221B, sluggish with the desire to get a good night’s rest in his own bed before running off on their huge search, he was unpleasantly surprised that Mrs Hudson wasn’t the first face he saw when he got in the door.

The visage before him when he came into the living room and accepted it'd be where he stayed for the next few minutes at least, was Mycroft. Close behind him, as he sat in Sherlock’s chair, was ‘Anthea’.

“Hello again.” John greeted, moving his weight more onto his cane. He'd found he liked the wooden one, and kept it.

She looked up briefly, not seeming to recognize him. Even though it was his bloody flat she was stood in. “Hi.”

“Right.” John turned his gaze on Mycroft, who despite being nearly throttled the last time he was there, sat in the leather armchair as if it were a throne, and the room his kingdom. “You didn't have to come all this way for the feather, we could have dropped it by.” John tried not to sound annoyed.

“Hm. At the very least I'd hoped you'd be grateful I, as you requested, ‘let myself in’.” Mycroft said in a haughty tone, as was his wont.

“Out of my chair, Mycroft, or I'll throw you out.” Sherlock said, sounding somehow sharp and tired in tandem. He'd come up after checking something in Mrs Hudson’s flat, sending John ahead. It wasn't until then John realized Sherlock must have known his brother was here before they entered the flat.

“Still touchy I see, even after our heartfelt discussion.” Mycroft hummed. But it made John grin when he got up anyway, and approached the doorway where they stood. “Any progress to report, after they no doubt confiscated your mobile?”

Sherlock walked past him and disappeared into the kitchen. “No. They didn't see me use it, not even John did.”

“Hey.”

“Oh don't be like that, you were half asleep. My device doesn't interfere with that type of plane, it didn't matter if I used it.”

“If you weren't delayed trying to fetch it back…” Mycroft started, as John huffed and fell into his own chair.

“Not your concern.” Sherlock said shortly. “Which of the markers did you end up taking?”

John smirked. On the way back, Sherlock had gone into great, unsolicited detail about how he couldn't deduce which Mycroft would go after, because he didn't pay attention to the vast array of connections his brother kept. That, and they'd stopped to grab something to eat at the airport. Apparently Mycroft hadn't banked on something as pedestrian as their getting peckish.

“Andrea.”

“Sir.”

“Hold on…” John sat up and looked at the brunette, who hadn't moved when her boss did. “Andrea? That's your name? Why bother giving me a fake one if it was that similar?”

She smiled knowingly at John. Then, something John hadn't noticed peeked out from behind her hair. He hadn’t ever seen a Neighbor at all like the one hanging around behind Andrea’s left shoulder, as if it were shy. It was an ugly thing, skin grey as if overexposed photographs of old had been done in paper mache and stuck all over it, with small black, beaded eyes reminiscent of a goggle-eyed fish. It’s face was oblong and flat, nose wide and short as it sat awkwardly upon it’s face just above the slit that was it’s mouth. It was dressed in rags moldy enough it was growing mushrooms on top of the hood and shoulders. The last thing John noticed about the forlorn looking creature was it’s shepherds crook, which it held close with it’s long spindly fingers, covered with small hair like a spider’s leg. It was hard to look away.

“It's a Bugul-noz.” Andrea offered, as if describing a type of cloud while discussing the weather.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen holding a round-bottomed flask full of something white and milky. “She's got a familiar?” He asked with a deep frown, looking at his brother.

“A what?” John looked between the three of them, the grey creature waving shyly when he looked at its master.

“Familiar.” The Holmes brothers chimed in unison.

Looking disgusted at that, Sherlock ducked back into the kitchen. “She's a caster. Of course she's a bloody caster…” he mumbled.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella. “Never wonder, Doctor Watson, why I had her scoop you up the first time, and not the black suits that I've engaged ever since?”

“Thought never occurred, no.” John answered shortly, readying himself for a condescending rant when all he wanted was to sleep for a few hours.

But all the elder Holmes said was “Another of your failed tests.” with a tsk, as if John was his disappointing schoolchild.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock reappeared, empty handed, and stalked up to glare point blank. “Just tell us the markers you're taking, I'll hand over the artifact, and you can scurry out of here.”

Mycroft looked about to argue, but apparently thought better of it. “Andrea and Basil will be leading the team sent to the first, fifth and seventh locations, to start. Keep us up to date on your progress and we shall endeavor to do the same.”

Sherlock thinned his lips and reached into his pocket for the little pouch he kept the feather in.

Andrea stepped forward, her heels clicking like a defined metronome, and the familiar (Basil apparently) reached out with its surprisingly long arm and took the pouch. John wondered what that looked like to the Holmes’, who were Sight-less.

“ _If_ that’s quite everything, brother dear…” Sherlock huffed. John had to stifle a giggle at his flatmate’s scathing endearment.

“Yes, yes. No need for another outburst.” Mycroft sighed, giving John an unappreciative side-look. Then he was off at very much his own pace down the stairs.

Andrea waited another moment, tapping on her blackberry. The Bugul-noz reached over and tapped a key now and then, looking as if it were a friend pointing to something missed on the screen. John saw something shoot out of the mobile, making him flinch back, and through the wall out of sight.

Sherlock had picked up his violin, but not his bow, and was plucking at the strings. He was also cooly watching John.

“Well.” Andrea tucked her phone away and gave John her vacant smile. If he was an outsider and had to guess, he’d never say she looked as if she’d seen him before. Just as that began to irk him, Andrea swept out the door, and her familiar gave him a polite little wave.

The two men sat in silence until the door downstairs was shut to indicate their visitors departure.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was working on something in his mind. That could take hours or seconds, and with no way to tell, John heaved himself up.

He’d only gotten to the bottom of the stairs leading to his room when Sherlock plucked a resounding note and his voice followed the sound.

“She uses her phone to cast.”

John took a very deep breath, knowing he should ignore it and not engage. But he also knew, from the first ridiculous request he’d performed for Sherlock (come back across London to send a text because I can’t be arsed to get up), that he’d never do that. He turned around to stand in the living room doorway, leaning heavily on his cane due more to fatigue than pain. “How d’you figure that? We had to leave ours in an airport locker just to go somewhere we wanted to _talk_ to Neighbors.”

Sherlock put his hand over the strings to interrupt the reverb and stood, replacing the instrument in it’s case. “One explanation is she’s using her own power.”

John watched him carefully as he tucked his hands together behind his back and moved into his bedroom. He left the door open. “You don’t think that’s what it is, though.”

“No. From what I’m given to understand, that would be very difficult to do once, let alone on an ongoing basis. Also if she has a familiar with her, what reason would she have to not use it.”

John could hear him rustling around in his closet. He reestablished his grip on his cane. “So…”

“So she has found a way to work around the regular distaste for technology the fae have, or her familiar doesn’t apply that particular hang up to it’s work with her. Most likely the latter.” Sherlock reemerged in his pajamas; sweat pants, a loose tee and his dressing gown. “I haven’t seen a Bugul-noz in any of the anthologies Bluebell lent me. Could you describe it?”

John looked suspiciously at Sherlock, setting his weight back on his good leg as his arm was getting sore. “What are you doing?”

Scrunching his face in impatience and confusion, Sherlock turned in probably a more dramatic fashion than was really necessary. “Problem?” He huffed.

“Yeah.” Still uncomfortable, John adjusted his stance yet again. “Why have you changed into… that? And you’re not demanding something. You’re asking. Politely.”

Looking affronted, Sherlock pushed closed one side of his robe. “Hardly uncommon things, John.”

“Yeah, maybe for other people. But with you it usually means you’re doing something you should either have told me about, or that I really won’t appreciate.”

“I’m making myself comfortable, seeing as we will be here a few hours at least, and I asked if you were _able_ to describe the Neighbor, as they aren’t always in a form suitable for reliable description.” John scrunched his brow and Sherlock interrupted before he could even open his mouth. “Of course you’re going to sleep now, any ignoramus could tell. How would you be able to help if you kept nodding off?”

John nearly felt embarrassed, like he was reading into things… but he trusted his gut. “Sherlock…” He stopped himself. There was no point, he wouldn’t…

So he turned away, wiping his hand down his face and making his way up the stairs.

He didn’t hear Sherlock tap over the hardwood on his bare feet to stand at the bottom of the stairs, and he didn’t see him there looking up when he closed the door.


	17. A Drama In Four Acts: Part 1, Leopardus Jacobita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curtain rises.
> 
> AKA the costume department has a lot of fun.

As John and Sherlock settled into what would be their day aboard a train, neither spoke of the confusion at the end of the day before... though both had it on their mind.

"So..." John started as the train began to pull away from the bustling London station. "Switzerland."

"Hm." Sherlock barely acknowledged him, clearly in his own mind.

"Ever been?"

"No... can't say I have."

John let out a measured breath. "You're a stunning conversationalist this morning."

Sherlock looked up. "Is that surprising to you?"

"Usually around this point, I can't get you to shut up."

"Good on you then. I'm shut up." Sherlock huffed before regaining his blankness.

"The Bugul-noz..." John started, lifting his chin in the knowledge Sherlock wouldn't ignore him now, "was a small humanoid, and a very ugly one at that. It had on clothes, molding clothes that were growing things, and held a wooden crook."

"What sort of wood?"

John blinked. He hadn't really noticed, but tried to recall. "Something light, like birch or ash."

“Hm.” That was Sherlockian for ‘continue’, which John did.

“It had very long limbs, a large flat nose… I think it’s hair was moss but I couldn’t really see under the hood.”

“Size?”

“Maybe a toddler?”

“Demeanor?”

“Sort of shy. It waved at me, sort of like it wanted to be polite.”

“Did it interact with the caster?”

“Anth- er, Andrea? Yeah, it poked at her blackberry.”

“Yes. Good.” Sherlock seemed to smile, or else his mouth twinged. John wasn’t sure. But after that he fell silent again, so John resigned himself, bought a paper, and sat back. It would take them nine hours and five transfers to get within a reasonable distance of their destination. No sense working himself up about things Sherlock might or might not share about his plans.

\---

Even after getting about six solid hours of sleep before they left, John managed to kill some of their time by napping. The other bits were spent secretly checking up on their route and transfers, reading whatever local newspapers he could find in English, and ignoring texts from his sister. She hadn’t been able to visit yet and was becoming unbearable about it. John wasn’t about to tell her he’d left the damn country, he knew she wouldn’t take that well at all.

When they finally arrived in Toffen, a small settlement south of Bern, Switzerland, John had finally just turned off his mobile’s alerts. He’d only brought a small case as Sherlock insisted they wouldn’t be there longer than two days. Sherlock had no luggage. John didn’t ask.

So they walked the small distance down the road from the station to a small bed and breakfast, John taking in the charm of the little hamlet, and Sherlock walking too damn fast while ignoring it all. John didn’t fix his pace to keep up, if Sherlock wanted to race around he was free to do so.

Here, there were plenty of Neighbors. Mostly the sort associated closely with people, like brownies and disirs. One such sprite even jumped up to ride on John’s bag as he tapped along down the street with his cane in the other hand. He didn’t really need it too badly anymore, though if he went a day without using it he regretted it the next morning.

Just before he went inside the lodging, he caught a glimpse of what could be the sylph from Ireland. He put that aside for the moment and walked in. Sherlock was in the waiting area, spinning what John assumed was their room key on his finger. He came over and took John’s bag without a word, and took off at a quick walk past the lobby and down a hall.

John gave the woman at the desk an apologetic nod and followed.

Their room was cozy, a few too many pillows for John’s taste as he scanned over it-

“Oi!”

Sherlock had opened his case and was going through it on the bed. When John approached, he saw why… apparently at some point between packing and leaving, his flatmate had packed his own things in with John’s.

“Sherlock…” John sighed and sat down in the lounger they had.

Without turning, Sherlock replied. “You had more than adequate space, it would have been cumbersome to bring another case.”

“You could have asked, you know.”

“Then we would have wasted time arguing about it.”

“We’re doing that right now, it was going to happen either way.”

“Yes.” Sherlock slipped something in his back pocket and turned around, clapping his hands and looking smug. “But this way I can walk away from you if you become overly bothersome. Or distract you. Let’s go, while we still have daylight.”

John watched him walk past and out, unilaterally finishing their discussion, then looked back at the bed. _The_ bed.

“Damn it, Sherlock…” He hissed to himself, heaving himself up with his cane and following.

 

Sherlock had gone down to the end of the block and was turning in a stationary circle very slowly as John approached.

“Sherlock…”

“It would take too long to explain.” He answered, continuing to spin.

“Not that. Why is there only one bed?” John asked shortly.

“Why would we need more than one bed, John.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. That bloody tone, that infuriating ‘this is not a question because the answer is so obvious there would be no point’ tone. “Because.” John huffed, taking a step closer, “There are two of us.”

“Why yes, that seems to be the case.” John deepened his frown. “How is this different from the week you slept in my bed? I won’t be using it.”

For some reason, that didn’t make John feel any better about it. “There’s- nevermind. What are you doing?”

Sherlock stopped and looked at John, blinking. “We should be close enough. Is the sylph nearby?”

“I glanced it, I think. Further this way.” John pointed with his cane.

“Bring a torch?”

“No-”

“Here.” Sherlock tossed him a small black cylinder, which John managed to catch one handed.  He pocketed it as he started off behind the detective, who was already walking towards the outskirts of town.

\---

The sun had only just begun to set, casting long shadows around and of them, when John suddenly stopped.

“There it is.”

And so it was, hanging in the air and looking rather miffed. _“This is already much more work than I agreed to. First the rabbit, then the wolf, and now some heron… I think that deserves something extra.”_

“What is it saying?” Sherlock was reading John’s muddled expression.

_“She. Stop saying ‘it’. Very rude.”_

“I think he just didn’t want to assume.” John told the spirit, though it just stuck up it’s nose in reply. “She wants more compensation, and she said something about a heron…”

“Ah. Mycroft must have already started then. Tell her the deal Bluebell struck is the one she’s held to.”

“Myc- how do you figure that? And _she_ can hear _you,_ you know.”

“Yes, John. But you need to be the one to assert it, I’m not strictly part of this contract. Why else than Mycroft would she mention anyone else in this context. He must have a Shifter helping, a heron. Grey Heron, in all likelihood.”

John huffed but faced the sylph. “I’m not changing the contract. Please lead us to the first mark.”

 _“Fine. Keep up. You may want to use four legs, Heira.”_ She said in a sly tone.

“I’m fine, thanks.” John mumbled, taking out his torch and clicking it on as the light faded. Sherlock followed suit.

With a wink, she was off. She strayed far off the main road, veering east.

John picked up his cane about the middle to carry it as he ran after her. Sherlock kept close behind.

\---

It took the better part of an hour, starting with jumping some poor bloke’s fence to get to the trees, then navigating them, and ending in the manicured lawn (he’d say lawn, but what he’d mean would be a football stadiums worth of mowed grass) before an impressively large house that looked as if it had once been a church.

Huffing hard with his hands on his knees, John looked up at the sylph. She was doing loops about ten feet off the ground, and looked very proud of herself. “The Shifter… they’re… in there…?” John puffed out, strain jolting with his heartbeat up from his leg.

_“I can take you right to them, of course.”_

John looked at Sherlock, who was in better shape than he was. But not by much. “Are we going to investigate this place right now? Sneak in?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and stood straight, looking over what he could see from where they stood. “No. Regroup and return in the morning. By car, this time.”

John just barely stopped himself saying ‘thank you’ to the spirit. Instead, he just told her this was fine for this mark, and they would go to the next soon. Seeming satisfied, she flew back to the trees and flickered out of sight before reaching them.

 

Sherlock gave John a few moments to sit, both torches off to keep themselves from being seen. They didn’t light them again until they were well within the line of trees.

It was eerily reminiscent of the night they’d taken Henry into the Hollow to find his great beast. John shuddered, his mind forcing him to think back to a time before all this began. Back when he was a doctor, a soldier, a (as Dr Franklin had said) live-in PA… and nothing else. Nothing odd or really special, and certainly fulfilled in the ‘dangerous excitement’ category.

He kept his lips tight, walking behind Sherlock. He was using his cane again now they could set a reasonable pace. Sherlock, whether cognizant of the stress on John’s leg or just deep in thought, wasn’t travelling very quickly.

Was it arrogant of him to have thought he could live his life without the wolf? _All_ his life? Even under the scrutiny of a genius, knowing he was playing with fire while he was working and living with Sherlock Holmes of all people? Was Harriet right to think doing anything else would result in him losing his humanity?

None of those questions much mattered, really. But John still asked them, to himself or to nothing.

He watched the tall, broad back of his detective. What was he thinking of now? Surely the case at hand… or was it silly to think maybe this reminded him, too…

Either way, neither man spoke until they were back in their room.

\---

As soon as he’d hung his coat on the door’s hook, Sherlock picked up the phone next to the bed. John watched curiously, hanging his own coat and putting the cane against the lounger.

“Pot of coffee, thanks. Yes, sugar and cream. Guet, merci.”

“Planning a late one?” John asked, stifling a yawn. The walk back had taken twice as long at their leisurely pace.

“Hm.”

“You don’t take cream.”

“Hm.”

Sighing and knowing it was futile to ask questions right now, or maybe just deciding he was too tired to care, John grabbed his shaving kit and went to ease his sore leg under a hot shower before bed.

When he emerged in the provided robe, his suitcase (or rather, _their_ suitcase) had been moved to the table at the foot of the bed, the lights had been dimmed, and Sherlock was gone.

John quickly changed and crawled in for a few hours before whatever conflict of the morning started, and as he reached to click off the lamp, he saw a little saucer of cream on the sill. A light breeze flowed in past it. John smiled and turned off the lamp.

\---

“John.”

He ignored it. Too tired.

“John.”

Nope.

“John.”

Something light with a sharp edge hit him in the head and he sat up. There was a paper ball on his lap, where it had rolled.

“Sherlock are you throwing wadded up paper at me?”

Sherlock was perched atop the lounger, with his arse settled on the back and his feet curled on the seat. He was balancing the paper pad provided for letter writing on his knee, and was already tearing off another sheet. “Yes.”

“Well I’m awake.” John batted the next one out of the air. “Stop.”

With a tiny smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, Sherlock crumpled another.

“Sher- jesus.” John caught the next one, which was en route to his eye, and chucked it back. “Are you actually five years old?”

The smile erupted it’s way across Sherlock’s entire face, infecting John’s as well, and they both laughed. Sherlock rocked forward so he fell into the lounger properly and tossed the pad onto the table beside him. “You should have a bite before we leave. In all likelihood it will be a long day.”

John glanced at the clock. It was 7:45am. “Yeah alright.” He threw off the sheets and stretched, testing his leg. It was sore, but not as bad as he’d expected. “Where are you going?”

Sherlock had grabbed his coat and wallet. “Running some errands. Come outside when you’re done, I shouldn’t be long.”

John watched him dash off. He was certainly more animated than last night. It was nice. Things had been so serious and heavy lately…

\---

As the cliche of small town b+b’s attested, the breakfast served in a cozy kitchen nook was homemade and quite excellent. John left feeling stuffed, which only added to the good mood he’d started the day with.

As promised, Sherlock was just outside when John pushed through the front door…

John gaped at him, because he was barely recognizable.

Looking very proud of himself, hair slicked back, Sherlock wore a flashy suit shirt loose at the collar. It was tucked into ostentatious pinstripe trousers, he had a suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, and he tipped his shades forward on his nose. Even those had some logo John was sure belonged to some prestigious company, but he didn’t pay attention enough to those things to know which.

The flashiest thing though, by far, was the car he was leaning against; a Bugatti Veyron, bright red with the top down. John only recognized it because Harry had always loved cars, and would talk about them every time he saw her.

“Sherlock what the fuck.” John asked, already sounding halfway between defeated and amazed.

“I told you, we’re driving back today. We need the appropriate credentials.”

“How- ugh…” John let his face fall into his hand and stifled a giggle. “Sherlock, if I go in _that_ car, with you dressed like _that_ , and I’m wearing _this,_ ” he motioned down to his tucked plaid shirt, jeans and sneakers, “people will do more than talk.”

Raising his chin with a fond smile, Sherlock opened the passenger door. “You look fine. Come on.”

“What the ffff-” Taking a deep breath and letting out a soft chuckle, John stepped forward. “Bugger it, yeah alright.” He got in, Sherlock closed his door and went around. “At least tell me you got me some shades, too.”

With a superior smirk, Sherlock started the car with one hand and handed over a glasses case with the other.

John took out a pair of somewhat less expensive shades, though that suited him much better, and leaned back as he slid them on.

Sherlock threw it into gear and they raced off down the country road.

\---

Rumligen Castle was much more impressive and a great deal less foreboding in the light of day, and by way of the front gate. Less of a castle and more of a very large, very old church, it nevertheless inspired awe.

The whipping wind around them had made conversation hard enough they hadn’t bothered trying, enjoying the ride instead. Besides, by now John knew Sherlock had adapted to having him along enough to tell him if he needed any details for his plan.

As it was, John was content to watch the performance and follow along. A ridiculous performance it was, too. They pulled up right to the front doors as if they owned the damn place and as Sherlock got out of the car, he took a deep breath and raised his arms as if gesturing to the entire house.

“Exactly as I’d hoped. Elegant, historical,  _pristine_.”

John just got out normally, closing the door and taking out his cane.

A stuffy looking man, older with a bit of paunch around the middle, came out as if to curse them out. But apparently Sherlock’s image was striking, because between seeing him and the car, the gentleman thought twice.

“May I assist you, sir?” He asked cautiously.

“Grand, I should bloody well hope so!” Sherlock boomed, swiftly closing the distance between him and the… butler? And smacking him heartily on the back. “Fetch your mistress, if you would, the lady Katarine De Mueron. It is for her sake I have come.”

“Ah. Of course sir. Please follow me.” Awkwardly, the butler led them into a sitting room. The entire interior decor was antique and restored carefully, including the silver tea set brought out to them after a moment. John’s cup, he noticed, was porcelain instead. He had to assume his more normal appearance played into Sherlock’s game somehow.

As John sat and had some tea, which was spicy and not at all what he expected, Sherlock examined the room casually.

“Miss De Mueron!” Sherlock exclaimed, twisting on his heel as she appeared in the doorway in a tailored sundress and impractically large hat. John wondered, amused, if the flowers sewn into the accessory were alive as they looked. “Such an honor, my lady, to finally meet such an esteemed figure as you.” Sherlock continued, taking her hand dramatically and kissing the large jeweled ring adorning it.

She seemed taken in by all of Sherlock’s peacocking, though once she saw John she frowned. “I’m afraid I was not expecting company…” She began, before Sherlock jumped in.

“How exceedingly rude of me, a thousand apologies my lady. It is because of your personage and your elite history that I have finally come. I am Antone Cavendish, of the London Cavendish’s, and this is my companion, Mr John Malone.

“I know it was dreadfully forward to just descend on you as I have, but I knew, just _knew,_ you and I were connected in a deeper sense and you would not turn me away.”

John drank his tea, knowing if he laughed it would ruin their cover. It took a lot of self control, and clearing his throat, before he felt safe putting the cup back in it’s saucer.

Sherlock led the woman to the chaise, inflating her ego as they went. Only once did she look at John.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just… well, you know. For show. It helps he’s a doctor as well, such a helpful creature really.”

And then they were back on her, and Sherlock’s character. John supposed, as he watched them and kept to himself, that with a brother like Mycroft it was likely Sherlock had attended at least a few social gatherings of a more elite crowd. Honestly the odd part was that Sherlock had brought _him_ , and as he was.

He learned a bit as he listened to them blather the morning away, such as this lady’s eccentric, somewhat famous mother who had inherited both this and another castle in Switzerland from her parents, and other stories of the things she’d said and done. It wasn’t until just before noon something actually interesting was said, though.

John had stopped paying attention, really, and was looking out the large window in the room, when he caught the real start of Sherlock’s plan.

“Did I not see you at a delightfully engaging auction in Ireland last month?”

John didn’t react externally, but if she was there, this suddenly became very dangerous. Both of them had been on stage, and John at least didn’t look too awfully different other than getting his weight and color back.

“Oh, no.” She said, still chortling from something said before. “Though I did have a proxy there around that time. Which event was this?”

“Ah, of course. I would certainly have noticed if you were among the guests there.” She giggled, flattered. “I myself was able to purchase a rather exotic pet.”

“Oh! Yes I should have remembered. My girl told me there were some amazing doings there. Such a shame I missed it but I simply cannot be expected to be everywhere I’d like to.” She looked pointedly at John now, and he blinked at her meekly to play it up. “Ah yes. I as well. I missed out the last time, those sort are very rare and only a handful are available each time it’s hosted. I am very fortunate as well, she’s just darling. Would you like to see her?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose, dear lady. Are you certain? After just a month, I know training can be at a difficult point. Mine came already knowing it’s place, thank the lord.”

“No no, she’s quite lovely. Spirited, definitely. But I have not been able to show her off yet. Come, come.” She put up her hand but stayed sitting. Sherlock didn’t miss a beat, standing and taking her hand delicately to assist her.

John looked at him expectantly, though internally he was getting more and more upset.

Sherlock looked down at him, frowning. “Hm. I think I’d prefer to leave him here. They can get unruly around one another.”

“Oh, absolutely. I am sure he’s happier being entertained on his own level. I’ll have Stewart fetch him. The garden is lovely, he can run around if he likes.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock offered his elbow. “Shall we?”

\---

John was left there for a few minutes before the butler’s return, and he spent them doing breathing exercises. He wanted to break something, or yell, and especially wished he had his gun. Because even through the rage, he got the distinct twist in his gut that this was incredibly dangerous.

His fears were somewhat confirmed when the butler came in, this time closely followed by a spirit that towered over him a step behind. It was thin, and resembled a scarecrow. John could tell, though, that the burlap face was something hiding its actual appearance. It gave off a dense feeling of dread, and the noises coming from it were akin to rapid clicking.

“Mr Malone, I am to escort you out of doors. Follow me.” His voice had lost all countenance of respect, and John saw he was holding something small in his gloved hand. The spirit with his reached for it and withdrew again and again, with it’s twig-like fingers which protruded from a scratchy shirt stuffed with hay.

John stood and approached, watching carefully. He could see the object more clearly; a glass orb. He couldn’t make out what was in it before the butler turned to lead him out of the main area, down narrow steps that were obvious for servants only, and out a back way to the garden they’d stood at the opposite end of the night before.

“Look at me.”

John turned, and the man grabbed his face by the chin. He flinched, but kept control of his reflexes.

“Are you truly kept by a master?”

The Neighbor leaned in a bit, watching closely. John felt a chill in his spine, and realized this creature would be able to tell if he lied.

‘ _I do most of what Sherlock says, it isn’t a lie._ ’

“Yes.”

The creature didn’t move.

“Very well. Why did he come here?” The butler gripped him a little harder, sneering.

“To see the castle and speak with Miss De Mueron.”

Again, nothing.

Narrowing his eyes, the butler changed gears. “Were you sold at the last Fair Folk auction?”

“Yes.”

The butler thinned his lips, but let John go. The creature stood straight.

“What _are_ you doing to my wolf?”

John turned to see Sherlock and the lady of the house coming across the grass towards them. Beside them walked an animal, held with a silver leash, though it was slack, attached to a funnel-shaped collar set with jewels.

An Andean Mountain Cat.

John pushed hard on his rage to keep it below the surface as he recognized one of the twins in a collar, like a pet. Like an animal.

“Oh, you must excuse Steward, Mr Cavendish. He is quite particular there are no lies in my house.”

“No lies, hm? How novel. That must make visits from children rather difficult.” Sherlock replied, stepping lightly as you please as he escorted the mistress around. They stopped in front of John.

“I do not entertain children, Mr Cavendish.” She addressed Sherlock, but was looking very intensely at John. “I would so like to see your wolf. Falkland Isles, no? The only chance in a lifetime to see one. That is why you have his dressed with such common apparel, is it not? No sense ruining something nice when he changes.”

“Yes, indeed. Though I regret to say I must keep him as he is for now. You can see he’s gone and hurt himself. If he changes around too much, it might scar.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed but nodded. “Yes, that would be quite a shame. Sit, darling.” She looked down at the cat to give the command.

She was staring at John.

But did as she was told.

Seeing that broke something in John. He looked at Sherlock as if to ask when the hell they were going to grab her and get the fuck out of there.

Sherlock’s only reply was a fast flick of the eyes from John to Steward and back. Then he checked his watch and tsked. “Damn it all. That’s the time, is it.” He turned to fully face Ms De Mueron, taking both her hands in his. “I have another engagement. I cannot thank you enough for humoring my selfish whims, my dear.”

“Not at all.” She took back a hand and put it out, and the butler stepped forward to place a small envelope there. She put it into Sherlock’s hand. “You will come, won’t you.”

Sherlock smiled. “I wouldn’t dare miss it.”

With another kiss on her hand, he turned back toward the house. “Come along, John.”

\---

Out on the road, after about ten minutes of driving at high speeds, Sherlock pulled over into a disused drive. He turned to John and took off his shades.

“What is it?”

John had been staring at his lap, tensing his hand, the entire time.

“John. We got exactly what we needed.” He held up the envelope.

John got out of the car and walked a couple meters down the drive before turning on his heel and coming back. He put his hands on the top of his door and stared at his detective.

“No. No, Sherlock, we didn’t need a bloody fucking _letter_. Jesus! We need to _get her out of there._ ”

Frowning, Sherlock looked from John’s shaking hands to his set, strained face. “We needed the invitations. If we take her now, even if we could, it will cause difficulties getting the others, later. Moriarty will figure out we can find them if we’re obvious about it, and he’ll make it that much harder, that much more dangerous. This is the first Shifter on the list, we can’t storm in. We have to be smart about this.”

John shut his eyes and raised one hand a bit so he could slam it back down on the door. “This is exactly like at the auction, Sherlock. You have no idea… the feeling of subjugation, having _chains_ on you and everyone just acts like it’s _fine_. She’s _eight years old._ ” He had to stop or his voice would betray him, running a hand down his face and trying to control himself. His nails dug into the expensive leather.

Sherlock carefully opened his door and got out, taking off his shades and tucking them in the 'v' of his shirt. He came around, but before he was within five feet…

“Don’t.”

“John, I-”

“ _Don’t_ , Sherlock.”

“Will you look at me?”

John did, shooting a glare at him. The wanker was as calm as you please, face neutral as always. Because why the hell wouldn’t… And then the image, the voice, of Sherlock from a couple weeks past emerged in John’s mind.

_‘John! John, talk to me! Are you hurt?’_

Frantic, uncomposed… desperate. He was in John’s lap, grasping weakly. He was coming undone. He…

John softened his features and looked again. Sherlock looked unaffected, except in the area around and in his eyes.

“You’re right.” Sherlock started slowly, carefully. “I have no idea what that’s like. And that’s why this is going to work, why we’re going to find all of them. I don’t have to know, or worry, because that’s the balance you strike. I can focus on logistics, because I trust you to give me insight I’m not capable of when it’s needed.”

“Sherlock.”

“The auction was different, you-”

“Sherlock, it’s fine.” John stood and faced him. “I get it. I’m just…” He pushed his hair back from his face. It’d been too long since he cut it, though it was by no means very long. “I can’t handle this as well as I should, sometimes. I didn’t expect her to be the first one, there’s no reason why I didn’t, but. Jesus, Sherlock, she’s just a kid.”

“I know. The party is tomorrow night. That’s when we can take her back. Another thirty odd hours.”

“Yeah…”

Sherlock stood there, frustrated by his hesitation. He could have put a hand on John’s shoulder, that would have been the best thing now to reassure him. But he didn’t move. Because if he stepped forward when John was this distraught, he didn’t think he’d put his hands on his shoulder, but rather around his waist.

“Come on. We have a lot to do before tomorrow.” Sherlock said instead, turning and going back to his side of the car.

When they were both in, he didn’t start it up just yet.

After a minute, John glanced at him, then away. “You’re much less of an arse about this stuff, you know? When we were doing Moriarty’s asinine game, you basically told me you don’t give a fuck, and to sod off about it.”

“That was when you’d still believe that sort of thing.”

“Yeah…” John stopped himself asking the obvious next question; why. Instead he put his shades back on. “Oh.” He clapped his hands and looked at Sherlock, who had put his shades on too at some point. “The butler, when he came back, had something with him. Looked like a scarecrow.”

“Right.” Sherlock looked vacant for a minute. When he came back out of it, he smiled. “Excellent. A bogle, a malevolent spirit who attacks liars and murderers.”

“The question is how are they controlling it…”

Sherlock fired up the engine. “We’ll need to find out before the party starts.” Then he threw it in reverse and screeched backwards out of the drive, kicking up way more dust than was probably necessary.

\---

The night of the party, which was a masquerade, John highly suspected Sherlock’s choice of costume for him. Likely he was taking advantage of the situation, because only for something this important would John be caught dead in this.

Sherlock wore a tux and tails with a gussied up oni mask.

John however wore something you might see in a Cher video. Leather pants, a set of black belts crisscrossed and attached together with a metal ring across his chest, and a thick black collar. The band over his stomach made him wish he hadn’t gained back so _much_ of his weight, among other things. He even had on bracers that could be linked together like handcuffs.

“Jesus, Sherlock…” John remarked as he looked into the full mirror in their bathroom.

The detective came in behind him, shirt and bow tie undone. “Oh good, it fits. Don’t look at me like that, this society regards Shifters like glamorous pets. And you won’t be wearing it long.”

John groaned into his hands, unable to look at himself any longer. “I’m a licensed doctor, I’m a veteran Captain of the British Forces, I’m a fearsome werewolf…”

“Some would also say you’re an excellent blogger.” Sherlock added, using the mirror himself as John had his little personality crisis in the foreground.

“But you wouldn’t say that.” John hmphed through his hands.

“No, I think you’re shite. But that’s certainly not the popular opinion, is it?”

John turned around and put his hands on the sink, leaning back. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Sherlock smirked. “Perish the thought.”

“You’re an absolute cock, you know that.”

“I’ve been told that, yes.”

\---

Whether it was better or worse for appearances, John left the b+b that night with Sherlock’s coat on, buttoned up, ‘in case anyone from the auction is there’. According to Sherlock. And without his cane, either, which both of them had agreed upon.

Admittedly, no one was likely to recognize Sherlock as he was now, especially with the mask on. But it made sense to ensure they recognized John. It would give Sherlock more credibility and notoriety, having tamed the wolf that rampaged onstage.

Sherlock had shared that their hostess had gone so far as to register the Andean Cat as her exotic animal with the proper authorities, so if they were getting the girl out of the country without incident, it was going to be as a human. That held it’s own set of problems, which Sherlock assured John he’d taken care of. When John asked for details, Sherlock refused, saying the fewer details John had to remember, the less likely it was he’d be caught having to lie. And they hadn’t yet figured out how to handle the bogle.

The drive over was the shortest and longest ride of his life so far. John felt anxiety creep up on him, not because it was dangerous, but because of both what he was wearing and what it represented. If people wanted to dress themselves like this, in other circumstances, that was their business. But here it meant he was lower than the others, the ‘real people’ who would be there. People like Sherlock.

The detective definitely noticed, but he didn’t say anything even though the top was up now, and they could have talked if they wanted to.

So they arrived in silence, handed off the keys to the valet, and made their way into the party.

 

Everything was in full swing when they got there, and maybe it was a mercy John was seen as a pet, because he was led around the back instead of entering in the front with Sherlock. And seeing as he’d apparently proven the day before he behaved himself, there wasn’t much in the way of security around him after he was put in a small sitting room and told to wait. He’d been instructed ‘his kind’ wouldn’t be allowed in until the second half of the party, when the Madame’s new acquisition was presented. Then he and any others would be ushered in. John hoped fervently no other Shifters would come, because it would be hard enough getting one out with planning, let alone someone unexpected with new circumstances.

The minute the door closed, John got to work. He took off Sherlock’s coat, which had been baggy enough on him to easily hide a few extra things in it. John was thankful as he changed his ridiculous top for an 'a' shirt, and took off his other accessories as well, stowing them in the coat and taking the little package in their place.

Peeking out and seeing no one was watching the room, he carefully and quietly left, closing the door after him. ‘ _Two lefts and a right…'_ He remembered carefully from Sherlock’s instructions. Apparently, the blueprints to this place had been easier to access than almost any others Sherlock had looked for. That’s how historical sites worked, he supposed.

Only having to maneuver around two of the servants of the house, John found their quarters and, more importantly, the uniforms they were to employ for the evening. So far, things were going smoothly.

Now dressed properly, the uniform over the uncomfortable pants and a shirt, John slid the last touch over his face; the plain white mask which was essential to this plan working. Too many people in the house would be able to recognize John, but now he was properly hidden. He hurried off to find where the young girl was being kept.

\---

Though the ruse was tiresome and the party much, much too loud, Sherlock slid into the social circle with ease. It was not the first time, though usually it was to trade a favor or because of blackmail courtesy of Mycroft.

His part of the plan was arguably the easier piece, though that also meant it was measures more tedious. Flitting around and tutting with the others, discussing politics and religion… and half of them in languages Sherlock didn’t speak.

After about a half hour and long since he assumed John was making his way around as a servant, Sherlock finally found the conversation he was looking for; the auction.

He quickly introduced himself to the small gathering and dove into the discussion of events.

“Yes after the sale went south, of course I could smell plebeian on that little woman no surprise there, I was able to make a very shrewd deal to bring home the Warrah.” Sherlock boasted behind his mask. “It wouldn’t do for a place like that to put a sold lot up, and reveal they’d let in someone of… questionable pedigree.”

“That was hardly the most interesting thing to happen that evening.” A woman in a kitsune mask huffed. “I suppose you were off making your bargain and completely missed it.”

Making his voice portray an undercurrent of defeat, Sherlock huffed right back. “Well then, why don’t you enlighten me? What amazing event did I walk out on?”

And by the end of her tale, no matter how embellished some parts seemed, the smile on Sherlock’s face was completely erased.

\---

John had already talked his way out of two stops from other servants, and he was beginning to get nervous. Though he’d gotten away without arousing suspicion, he doubted that would work with the regular staff. He’d only met people hired for the event, who had assumed he was part of the household and didn’t give him much trouble. If Steward found him, he doubted his mask would protect him. Especially if the bogle was still with him.

He’d been everywhere remotely possible on the bottom and ground floors without so much as a whiff of Shifter, and he’d started to regret dismissing the sylphs help so soon. But she would have caught attention if anyone there had the Sight, which there was highly likely to be at least one of.

He was quickly running out of time, he knew, as he climbed the stairs to the second level.

\---

“And the Thorn Mage, no one has seen him at any such event for nearly a century!”

“But of course a Sleigh Beggy would bring out all sorts. Likely why so many lots were included this time.”

Sherlock had stayed to listen to more commentary, but only listen. His lips were thinned. He’d been careful to not lie, even though he hadn’t seen any evidence of the bogle or butler since he’d arrived.

“Excuse me.” He said quietly as he slipped away. As quickly as possible without drawing attention, he made his way to the garden and into the cool night air. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. And he no longer wanted to do this. He wanted to find John and go back, and take the next train back to London, back to England. But that was too dangerous, now they were here and keeping to the plan was the safest way to keep themselves concealed and get away clean.

He looked up and around. There was a string quartet playing softly as a few couples danced, and the entire garden was softly lit with floating spheres he equated to magic. That, or very clever electrical work. It hardly mattered.

Sitting on the provided antique chair and giving the waiter his drink order, Sherlock considered, even briefly, that Harriet Watson might be right: John should never shift again.

\---

The second door John checked, on the second floor, made him sick to his soul.

It was lit only with candle sconces around the walls, and those were at half wick. But he could clearly see the ugly, flowered wallpaper and old, well cared for furniture. The mirrored vanity with several types of brushes, both for human and animal, lined up as if with a ruler. The open, rolling wardrobe stuffed with various costumes as if for dress up, and gowns, and a shelf for matching shoes. The little table next to the tall stained glass window, made up for a tea party. John knew exactly what this room was; a dollhouse.

He didn’t give himself time to get angry, he smelled Shifter here and he knew he’d found her.

And there she was, when he lifted away the curtain of weaved satin around the four poster bed. She was sat in the middle, right between the pillows, in a floof off white and pink and lace and ribbon, her toes pointed at the ceiling. Exactly as a doll in presentation.

She looked slowly over at him, and the facade shattered. “Doctor-who-got-shot?” She whispered, sounding as if she was questioning more whether he was there than who he was.

“Yes.” He gave her a soft smile and offered a hand. “John. I’ve come to get you.”

She was in his arms before he could blink, and though he was ready to soothe her, she did not cry.

“Which are you, Mads or Strel?” He asked as he lifted her carefully away from the bed and knelt with her on the floor.

“Strel.” She answered with a cocky smile. He could see her worry behind it. She must have realized if he had to ask, they hadn’t yet found her sister.

“Good. Strel, I need you to put these on ok?” John handed over his small brown paper package.

She simply nodded, and John went to check the hall while she changed.

As he carefully began to open the door to peek, it slammed hard against him and threw him back. He managed to stay on his feet, but the knob had hit him in the eye. He blinked, getting it re-orientated as he crouched, adrenaline pumping hard through him.

In the better lighting of the doorway stood Steward, the head butler. The image of his face was in shadow due to the candles in the room, which flickered and gave him quite a presence. Not that any of that was needed, because looming behind him was the bogle.

\---

After some brown alcohol Sherlock had taken as the waiter’s recommendation, plus a bit of fresh air where he wasn’t fake laughing or pandering, Sherlock had rejoined the fray. He was dancing with the lady of the house, who seemed quite taken with him. That was, of course, the point. Still.

“I’m becoming more restless as the night wears on, Mr Cavendish. I might consider moving up the main event. She is just the most beautiful thing, especially when she changes. I’ve spent days having her do just that, back and forth.” Ms De Mueron sighed dreamily.

Sherlock pushed away the image of Bluebell on the plane, and what she'd told him about the intimacy and vulnerability of shifting. It wouldn't help anyone.

“My dear, I do believe it’s about time you called me simply Antone. Do you not agree?” Sherlock replied, pulling her in a bit more as he led the dance.

“Well sir, one might think perhaps you were only trying to get permission to call me Katarine.”

“Or, alternatively… Kat?” Sherlock looked down at her through the mask, angling his head just so to let the light through, making his eyes sparkle.

“One might also think you didn’t come here to see Rumligen at all.”

“Perhaps one would be correct. Kat.” He dipped her.

And she seemed to forget all about the Shifter she kept upstairs.

\---

“Does your master know what you’re up to, John?” Steward asked, his teeth flashing when he spoke.

John swallowed. Lying would set the bogle on him. Telling the truth would incriminate Sherlock. He decided staying silent, though damning in it’s own way, was his best bet.

“Couldn’t wait to play around with your kin?” The butler looked past John to Strel, who was halfway done changing and in her undershirt and pants. “Or something rather more sinister perhaps?”

Gears whirred in John’s head. They could not afford to be caught this early in the plan. They couldn’t really afford to be caught at all…

“I came looking for her.” He admitted. Maybe, just maybe… he could talk his way out.

“Why?” Steward hissed.

“I wanted to find her.” John answered, doing his best to sound dense. He tilted his head a tad to add to the image.

“Why is she out of her dress then?” Steward was obviously trying to catch him either in a lie or a confession.

“It looked uncomfortable.”

Steward narrowed his eyes, and John saw his hands turn something over… the glass orb. Looking more closely… it was definitely tied to the bogle. It was astounding John hadn’t picked up on it before…

“Did you intend for either of you to attend tonight’s party?” The butler looked smug, he thought he’d finally found the right question to out John’s betrayal.

He had to turn it around, just for a second. He stood up straight and took off his mask to look his enemy in the eye. “It’s not close to time for that, not yet. So why are you checking on her? Are you bitter about all the attention she’s getting, all the special treatment for some _pet_?”

“Of course not!”

And John pounced. ‘ _This would be so much easier with my cane…_ ’ He managed to reach, and brought down his hand on both of Stewards. The orb fell to the floor with a heavy clunk.

It hadn't broken. It wasn't done yet.

John could see the bogle above them, the burlap seeming to raise off its face… but it was actually that its jaw was lowering, opening to reveal several rows of long needles where teeth would be.

Both men scrambled to grab at the glass, but John was already closer to the ground. He smashed his fist down as hard as he could at the awkward angle. ‘ _Please break!_ ’

And it shattered, barely making a sound as the wisps within were sucked into the bogle.

The butler didn't have time to scream as the creature descended upon him, taking all of him in its maw.

John quickly pushed the door shut and sat back against it. He tried to catch his breath, and felt terror and malice through the hard wood that separated him from the horror happening in the hall.

John looked over at Strel. She shouldn't have seen any of that. But the girl sat silently. She didn't look frightened nor happy about what just happened, and her eyes glowed eerily in the dim like a cats.

“Hurry and finish getting dressed. We don't have much time left.” He whispered, giving her a reassuring smile regardless of whether she looked frightened outwardly. If John was really honest, _he_ was rather scared at the moment.

But he brushed it off, inspecting his hand. There were several shards of glass in it. He had to consider what to do… leaving with them could lead people to look for them, and if Stewards situation wasn't obvious, it could easily seemed like a mishap. But leaving bloody shards, especially if they were checked for DNA, could be much more incriminating.

He sighed. They needed to come out. He'd much rather use the proper tools, but given the situation, he'd have to improvise.

By the time he'd gotten them all out, including a very small bit embedded in his palm, Strel was ready.

She looked much more comfortable in a sleeveless Union Jack tee, denim jacket, dark green trousers, red high tops and a baseball cap. She looked extremely like a tourist.

John took the shards he'd wrapped carefully and put them in his pocket.

Then he took her hand and checked the door again, this time successfully.

He had no idea what the freed bogle had done, there were no traces save the glass on the floor and the curtains at the end of the hall fluttering in the breeze.

“This is what I need you to do…” he spoke quickly and quietly as he led her around to the back stairs.

\---

No matter his skill at dancing, Sherlock couldn’t put off the main event forever. He may have bought an extra half hour, at most. Now was the moment of revelation… had it been enough?

John was led out, wearing his ridiculous BDSM outfit, to meet Sherlock in the middle of the floor. Though it was unlikely anyone could see through the oni mask, Sherlock was sure to look down at his companion with a cold stare.

The mistress of the house stood forward and the crowd stopped mumbling about the warrah Shifter from Ireland.

The minute stretched, eyes silently watching as Katarine grew more impatient and uneasy. Then the way to the staircase cleared and a man in a plain mask, maroon dress shirt and black slacks came forward to whisper in the lady’s ear.

Her face paled, and Sherlock’s eyes shone with triumph.

The servant scurried away as De Mueron gestured dramatically, her arm thrown up and around. “Someone here has absconded with my property! No one leaves!”

\---

About two hours later, things were calming down. After the discovery the bogle and butler were both gone, speculation had been wild. There were whispers and shouts of him feeding the girl to the bogle, or her just screwing up and it taking her and then butler freeing the creature out of guilt so he could punish himself. There was no proof of anything, other than the torn up dress (apparently Strel had expressed her feelings for it while changing), the shattered orb, and the absence of three of the household’s ‘belongings’.

People were starting to leave finally, many chortling about how unexpectedly entertaining things had turned out.

At one point, someone had tried to pet John and Sherlock backhanded them hard enough to send them spinning to the floor, but that was expected to happen at least once, according to the guests around them.

Now they were sat together in the garden, Sherlock with a glass of port and John with an abandoned tray of h'orderves.

“I think I’d be upset if I didn’t get to at least try these.” John said as he popped something he couldn’t identify into his mouth. It was salty and tender, and he reached for another.

“Be grateful for the interruption, or someone might have asked me to toss them to you like a poodle.”

John snorted, looking for a new type of snack on the tray as a very tired looking Katarine came out to join them.

Sherlock stood and escorted her to his seat. “It’s been a very trying evening for you, Kat-” John turned away to make a face at the pet name, “is there anything I can do?”

Reaching to help herself to Sherlock’s port, the woman sighed. “Nothing more to be done, I’m afraid. If she’s out there, I will find her. That I promise.” She looked adoringly up at Sherlock, taking his mask off the table and putting it to her face. “Thank you.” She handed him the mask with another sigh. “You must be exhausted. Could I offer you a place to stay tonight?”

He took her hand and kissed it with a bow. “Very kind of you, though I regret I must decline. I have to return quite early tomorrow. I will keep my people looking for any sign of your prize.”

She look disappointed, but resigned. “I’ll have Daniel bring around your vehicle, then.” She glanced behind her, and a servant standing there ran off. “I’ll see you off here, then. I’m afraid I must retire. Such a great deal of stress…”

“I pray for your swift recovery, my lady.”

Sherlock bowed again, snapped at John to follow, and went through the house to the front. Without the discerning eye of Steward on the house, no one looked twice at John exiting with him instead of around the side.

\---

A long, deep groan purred over the motor when they were a few miles down the road. John was already taking off the cuffs and collar. “God what a nightmare. I really hope finding the rest won’t be like this.”

“I don’t know, I think you did very well.” Sherlock smirked.

“Don’t. Don’t start with me right now. I have absolutely zero patience left for this…” He couldn’t find the word he wanted, so John just gestured at the leather he’d removed so far. “How far before we can pull over?”

“Another ten minutes, to be safe.”

“She’s not going to be happy about that.”

“Hm.” Sherlock grinned, and John stripped off the belted top and shoved it all in behind their seats.

 

After pulling off the road and a half a mile down a dark, disused side road, Sherlock flicked off the lights and got out of the car. John had fetched Sherlock’s coat and put it back on, both to combat the cold of the night and to hide his chest. He jumped out too, and followed Sherlock to the boot while he clicked it open.

There, curled up enough so she only took up half the available space, was Strel.

“Hello, Estrelle.” Sherlock greeted with a soft, satisfied smile.

John helped her out of the boot, since she seemed to be shaking and unsteady. “Are you alright? I’m sorry it took so long to get out of there.”

The girl grunted in reply, shaking her head and rubbing at her ears. The engine must have been grating from in there.

“Come on, you can sit in my lap the rest of the way, and then we’ll get you a bit of sleep before we leave this place far behind. Okay?” John spoke softly, but Strel glared at him. He figured maybe he shouldn’t speak to her so carefully, she didn’t seem to appreciate it.

“Come.” Sherlock said shortly, going back around to the driver’s seat.

“Can I pick you up?” John asked. Strel hissed at him. “Fair enough. But you have to sit with me. I can’t drive and Sherlock can’t really do it if you’re sitting with him.”

“That’s Sherlock?” Strel asked, a little too loudly.

Hearing that, Sherlock pushed himself up so he was sitting on the top of his seat and swiveled around to look at them. “Oh yes. I am Sherlock Holmes.”

Strel pointed at him, John pushed her hand down, and she pointed with the other. She looked right at John and said “You used to talk about him.”

John’s mouth became a thin line, and Sherlock’s curled up. “Do tell.”

“No-”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t while he was awake, but when he was sleeping sometimes he would say stuff like ‘ _Sherlock, please. Sherlock, don’t look. Sherlock, I need you._ ”

John turned away, coughing, and the smile faded off Sherlock’s face. Because he knew exactly what that was, John had told him already. His nightmares about Baskerville.

“If you like, Miss Estrelle, you can sit with me and help me drive.” Sherlock said calmly.

Trying not to look overly excited, Strel nodded and ran around to Sherlock’s side. He sat down properly and lifted her in without opening the door.

“You absolutely cannot crash us into the ditch.” Sherlock said, dead serious. He made a whole thing of doing the seat belt and checking the mirrors so Strel could see with them.

John knew he was giving him a chance to collect himself before calling him back. Wrapping the coat a bit more tightly because of the cold, John stalked back to the car and got in. Neither of the others really gave him any mind, too busy with the car and each other.

Sherlock showed Strel how to start the car, and then flick the lights back on, and they were off.

\---

By the time they got to the b+b, Strel was asleep.

“It’s no wonder,” John said quietly as he scooped her out of Sherlock’s lap, “she’s been under so much stress. You should have seen…” He stopped. He didn’t want to talk about the dollhouse.

Sherlock didn’t ask, either. He just got out of the car and walked quickly so he could open the door for them.

The lady at the front desk melted when they walked in and tutted over.

“My niece.” John said quietly, mostly mouthed actually, at her.

“Should I bring in a cot?” She whispered, glowing as she looked at Strel’s sleeping face.

“No, no. She’ll have the bed. I have to finish some work before we leave in the morning.” John answered, looking at Strel almost as affectionately as their innkeeper. She didn’t make him mad anymore, because they were changing her situation. She wasn’t a child shipped and sold as a slave. She was a person now. And honestly, her chubby little cheeks really were very cute.

“How precious. Visiting with her uncles.” The woman sighed dreamily. “I’ll bring by a tray for her in the morning.”

“That’d be great. She’s sure to love your bacon.” John smiled warmly at her before turning to Sherlock’s impatient tutting. “Good night.”

The detective opened their room and went to their suitcase as John tucked the sleeping Shifter into bed. She looked so small on the queen sized mattress.

“Here.” Sherlock came up and handed him a passport. “‘Uncle John’ should carry it.”

John opened it to find it was incredibly accurate, from her picture to her eye color. “Candace Estrelle Martin.” He looked at Sherlock. “How did you even get this done so quickly?” Sherlock looked very proud of himself. “Not through Mycroft, then.”

“Not really true, though no, he doesn’t know I use his contacts. It’s really not hard to get his identification, as you recall.”

“You didn’t even know which twin she was.”

“Of course I did.”

John smirked. “You damn liar.”

“It was a 50/50 shot.”

“You damn lucky bastard.”

“Watch your language, _Uncle_ John.”

John smirked and tossed Sherlock’s coat at him. “There’s something for you in the pocket.” He said offhand, going to the case and getting out his own clothes. “I’m having a shower. This entire thing has made me feel gross.”

Sherlock quickly found the glass shards wrapped in a cloth napkin. “John.” He looked up and bolted over in time to catch the bathroom door before it closed. “Show me.”

John sighed, but he couldn’t raise his objections before Sherlock had grabbed his hands. He quickly dropped the uninjured one in favor of investigating the cuts. He rubbed one with his thumb, and a thin layer of something translucent peeled off. A slow, thick bead of blood followed. “Glue.”

“Yeah. Basic. I couldn’t be bandaged up or bleeding everywhere, even that lot wouldn’t miss that obvious a clue.”

“There are times I think I don’t give you enough credit.”

“Yeah. Every day since we met.”

Sherlock lowered his brow and gave John a look. “We should take it all off and treat it properly. Is there any trace of magic left? That wasn’t exactly ordinary glass.”

“Not that I can tell, but I might ask someone who would really know once we get back. For now, though. Sherlock, cut it out.”

The detective was hardly listening, he was already holding John’s hand in both of his as he rubbed his thumbs carefully across, peeling away the glue. “One of these will need stitches.”

“Yeah. Like two. Two stitches I can handle.” He watched Sherlock, acting like a kid who was bored in class. He sighed but stopped arguing. He didn’t really care if Sherlock wanted to do this part himself, no matter how _fucking_ uncomfortable these trousers were.

\---

After a pair of quick showers, both of which John had insisted upon, they sat together at the little desk and discussed which of the remaining markers made the most sense to go after next. They would return to Baker Street with Strel first, of course, but after that…

The possibilities included someplace in South America, (John wished he remembered more from geography class…) one in Iceland, and another in Canada. The last of the seven, not including the ones Andrea and Mycroft had claimed, was in England. They came to an agreement that they’d go after that one last. It was the likeliest to blow the operation, the most people who could recognize them for who they were around there. Sherlock did say he’d employ his homeless network to keep an eye on the area.

It was past sun up by the time they finished, and John was about to ring for coffee when there was a soft knock announcing the innkeep had brought their tray.

John answered it hastily. “God bless you.” He said as he saw not only the covered plate and glasses of both juice and milk, but a carafe as well.

“You did say you’d be up all night.” She replied with a warm smile. “Should I bring yours and Mr Holmes’ meals as well, or will you be dining with us?”

“Yes, please do. I don’t think I could drag Sherlock away from the bloody desk if I wanted to at the moment. He’s not the sort to take care of himself well.”

“I’ll bring something he can eat with his hands, then.”

“Honestly, bless you.”

“Anytime, love.”

John shut the door and took a whiff of the coffee, bringing the tray over to the table and setting it down.

“You know I can hear you, yes?”

“Why would I care anymore, it’s basically random.” John answered as he poured himself a cup, downing it without regards to temperature.

“It is not at all random.” Sherlock hissed.

“Well if you’re so offended, start feeding yourself. Case or no.”

“How I survived before you came along…” Sherlock started to quip off dramatically. He stopped and looked down. Neither of them had noticed the small figure get up until she was tugging at Sherlock’s sleeve.

“Food is there, bathroom is there.” Sherlock said to her shortly, pointing to each.

“Sherlock…” John huffed. He sat on his haunches in front of Strel. “Did you sl-”

She pushed him over on his arse, glaring. While Sherlock laughed, she walked past to the bathroom and closed the door.

“I doubt she appreciates your condescension, John.”

John pushed himself up and stood. “She’s _eight._ ”

“I was eight once. I didn’t like it then either.” Still chuckling, Sherlock poured himself some coffee, added his sugar, and stood. He sipped it as he took the provided cream to the window sill and poured it into the little dish there.

“What are you doing? You’ve done it since we got here.”

“Making sure we have all our things when we leave.”

“Sherlock, that isn’t an answer.”

Before he could answer, Strel emerged, her cap on backwards now. She walked over to the table, pulled the chair John had been using over to it, and sat on her knees to eat.

When she lifted the cover off, John smirked. The cook had arranged her breakfast (which included way too much bacon for any reasonable human being) into a union jack. Using mostly berries and whipped cream.

She seemed to like it.

\---

Sherlock returning the car while John bought the train tickets, Strel dogging along after them (she had to hold John’s hand, while Sherlock didn’t care) felt very familial. It was nice. It made John wonder if Harry would actually get her act together enough for a family, so he could hang out with some niblings for real.

It became apparent very quickly that Strel preferred Sherlock, which irked both him and John. Needless to say, it was a very long day.

So when they finally stopped in front of 221B, John couldn’t be more pleased.

He ushered both child and man who acts like one into the flat quickly.

Mrs Hudson came through the hall at a fast pace, already cooing over the little girl.

Strel hissed, and her face began to elongate.

Sherlock knocked her on the head and she stopped. “You can’t shift here. Your buyer has your cat form registered to her and it’s very rare. If you want to stay away from her, you have to be a human girl until we can ensure your safety otherwise.” Sherlock shoved past the congregation they’d made in front of the door.

“Estrelle, this is Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson, this is Candace Estrelle. She’s my niece. My sister and Clara adopted her.”

“Maybe that’s why she’s been calling me. John, call your poor sister back.”

John groaned. “How did she even get your number?”

“She’s not his niece, obviously.” Sherlock reemerged with an apple he seemed to have nicked from Mrs Hudson’s flat. “She’s on the run from her kidnappers, we can’t go to the police due to her circumstances, and she had no other family than a twin sister we have yet to locate.”

“Sherlock that is not what we discussed.”

“This way is faster and less annoying. And she’ll have an easier time looking after the girl if she knows everything.”

“Sherlock you didn’t even _ask-_ ”

But Mrs Hudson didn’t seem to miss a beat at all as she led Strel back to her flat, much more careful about being too familiar with her, talking about what they could see on telly around this time.

“See. Easier.” Sherlock took another bite of apple. Annoyed, John snatched it from him and made his way up the stairs. “Hey.” Sherlock followed.

\---

And halfway around the world, even as Sherlock and John were boarding the train to Switzerland, Andrea and Mycroft were not fucking around.

“Target secured.” Andrea spoke simply into her radio, watching as her familiar put its arm comfortingly around the terrified Shifter.

“ _\--Copy. Seven bogies in custody, eleven dead.--_ ”

Smiling, Andrea answered “Copy, over.” and clicked her tongue so Basil would lead their rescued therianthrope after her to the waiting helicopter. “Come. You need to meet my boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this is one of five parts of this chapter. Woof. Next update sometime next week unless I get a rush of inspiration this weekend. Next act likely won't be quite this long but I dunno I can ever tell entirely.
> 
> Loving the comments!
> 
> Shout out to my Dad, who helped me discover whether bringing John's gun would be realistic. It wasn't. It's still hella illegal for him to have it in London and travelling outside the country with it would be Not Good, even for Sherlock.
> 
> Also to my friend Michelle, because she recommended the absolutely ridiculous car Sherlock rents. Honestly, look it up. It always makes me chuckle. Bugatti Veyron.


	18. A Drama In Four Acts: Part 2, Panthera Unica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The players gather.
> 
> AKA a lot of figurative slap fights happen. And one literal slap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss me? Damn but this is a long chapter, and as much as I wanna skip ahead sometimes... I gotta lay the groundwork first. If it helps, Chapter 17 (or what at this point will be chapter 21) is almost entirely written. So that'll go up quickly following A Drama in Four Acts.
> 
> Trigger warning: reference to off-screen gore.

When they finally got their shit together enough to leave for Iceland, Sherlock couldn’t get out of the flat fast enough. The little Shifter seemed to prefer him, for reasons he didn’t understand, to John or Mrs Hudson. It wasn’t as if she was crawling over him or asking him a million questions. If fact, he often forgot she was there. Until he looked up, basically at any time, including right as he woke up. Then he had her deep, inquisitive eyes staring at him.

“What do you want?” He often asked, in less and less patient tones. John didn’t even bother correcting his behavior, since it seemed Strel didn’t care if Sherlock mouthed off at her.

She would sit at his feet, reading something on John’s laptop in a language Sherlock didn’t know, likely from the look of it something close to Spanish or at least from South America. Given her shift, if it had anything to do with her heritage, it made sense. He also noted though she could speak it, she could not read or write in English.

The worst part of any of it was how amusing it was to apparently everyone else. Including, somehow, both Mike and Lestrade. The former had come over at the behest of Harry Watson, to be sure her ‘brother with a death wish’ was actually in once piece. He still hadn’t returned her calls or texts, which he explained to Mike was her being overprotective of her new adopted daughter while he assured him Estrelle was as fine as he was. He’d have to take John on his word at that, because Strel didn’t seem at all fond of Mike. She hissed at him and hid behind Sherlock, holding his hand in both of hers. When Sherlock had looked over to John for help, both the other men just laughed.

As for the DI, who came over with a case (which they couldn’t take) and barged in as was his wont when it came to a serious issue… well, Strel didn’t like him either, though she didn’t actually hiss at him. And suddenly the ‘important case’ wasn’t nearly as pressing as having a chat with John about babysitting.

Now, as they sat in the cab and drove towards Heathrow, Sherlock was caught somewhere between sulking and relieved.

“Come on.” John encouraged, seemingly getting his energy back from the short stay at home, the beginnings of progress, and Sherlock’s new admirer. “You seem to have an easier time around kids than adults anyway. Is it really so bad? She’s not really bothering you.”

“But she is, John.” Sherlock seethed. “No less than the rest of you twittering about because of her.”

“She barely does more than I ever do, when you’re thinking.”

“You I can have because you are _unassuming_. Your presence bleeds into the rest of my surroundings and I can ignore you as easily as anything.”

John thinned his lips. “Yeah, I can’t say you’re full of it even. You seem not to notice when I’m there or gone.”

“I do notice.” Sherlock mumbled, turning away to take in his city. All this work outside of it put him out of step with the particular rhythm London possessed. No matter the other changes, London was a constant. He did entertain the thought of even glancing at Lestrade’s case. He let out a frustrated sigh, all of this couldn’t finish up soon enough. He wanted back to his flat, his violin, and his people where they belonged; John with him, Mrs Hudson tutting around in the background, Mycroft… out of his hair and too busy to spy on him.

 _‘You know… when you get him back, things aren’t going to be the same.’_ Bluebell’s voice rang in his head. She had been quite astute in seeing things in Sherlock most didn’t, likely because she didn’t think of him as some kind of robot or malicious force playing around. She saw him as he was; human. _‘I know that’ll be hard for you, but try to realize how much harder it will be for him.’ She looked away. ‘Assuming what you’ve told me about you both rings true.’_

“Shut up.” Sherlock huffed.

John looked over, used to such little bursts from Sherlock but never blindly accepting them. “Sorry?”

“Not you.” He answered shortly, shaking his head and looking at London again.

“Who then?”

Sherlock frowned at his transparent reflection in the glass window. He didn’t want to look at himself. “Bluebell.”

John sat back and crossed his arms, looking out on London as well, though he did not see it. “She really made an impression on you, huh?”

“She had to. Everything I needed to know about your world, I learned from her.” Sour, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to ignore the distances he was creating.

“That is not my world.” John said firmly, a frosty sheen upon his words.

Sherlock turned with a frown. “It is, John. It’s your world and I’m stuck on the fringes of it.”

John’s face fell in surprise, a deep ache settling in his gut. He swallowed, and when he didn’t say any more, Sherlock turned back to look out the window.

The rest of the cab ride was made in silence.

\---

Compared to the nine odd hours from Baker Street to the continent the week previous, a three hour flight to the tiny island of Grimsey in Iceland was nothing. Even if the silence pervaded until they walked out into the cool sea air.

“Do you know the other ways, John?”

Looking up from where he was trying to hold a map against the wind enough to read it, John felt odd hearing Sherlock speak. At first, he wasn’t actually sure he’d heard it.

Standing there with the wind whipping his closed coat all around him and tugging at his scarf, Sherlock pushed his hands into his pockets and looked out on the ragged outcroppings, the lush greenery, and the crashing salty waves. “The other ways someone like me can See?”

Folding and pocketing the map, John took two steps forward and looked over his detective with concern. “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

But he started walking away towards the shore, and John picked up his cane and their case and hurried after.

“Sherlock, stop!” Unable to use either hand, John reached out with the handle of his cane, hooking it over Sherlock’s arm and tugging.

Sherlock’s face looked paler than John had thought… “I know what the warden was.”

John wrinkled his brow. “The… the woman who ran the zoo?” He rubbed his forehead. “You’re jumping all over, I don’t understand.” The wind howled around them, and it would be dusk soon. “Can we go to the guesthouse to discuss this? Out of the wind?” John looked back the way he came. If the internet hadn’t lied, he could see the accommodations from where they stood, not even a 15 minute walk. It really was not a large island.

 

Sherlock hadn’t said another word, which began to worry John as he set their things down in the small but cozy room they’d rented. He turned to sit on the bed, folded his hands in his lap with his cane resting over his knee, and looked up expectantly.

“Sherlock, do you want to tell me now what’s bothering you?”

“No.” Sherlock’s blank face twisted into a grimace. “But I will.”

John just waited patiently, looking calm yet concerned.

Sherlock began to pace, taking off his scarf and coat and tossing them unceremoniously on the bed behind where John sat. Then he tucked his hands behind his back and swathed his path. The one he’d wear into the carpet if they stayed long enough.

“The warden wasn’t a Shifter, nor was she a caster from what I could tell, though how would I know? Most of the evidence is invisible to my eyes. Do you have any idea how frustrating that has been since this began? It doesn’t factor in, regardless.” He stopped a moment, turned, and started pacing counterclockwise. “She used a skin, a very particular skin. Rare, because it’s difficult to tell whether it’s genuine unless you’re a Shifter yourself. You’ve been close to something similar before, you couldn’t hide your reaction every time the reek hit your nose.”

John took a second, Sherlock was obviously waiting for him to pick up the pieces as he left them, like breadcrumbs he could follow. “The feather.” He said finally.

“The feather. Yes. Part of a skin. That’s why it smelled so strongly, to you at least. And Bluebell, when she first encountered it. And recently I have learned how they authenticate and use these skins, these pelts. Another auction guest told me at the party.” His eyes flashed and he stopped to look John dead in the face. “Places like that, even with their reputation… this particular item is bid on after a ritual of sorts.” He stepped closer, close enough he was looming over John. “They bring out a Shifter as human, force their animal form, and they _skin them._ ” Sherlock felt his throat burn as he said the last two words, unsure if the bile rising in his throat caused it, or if it was the rage. He watched John’s face fall, took in and analysed every tick of the regimented expression that betrayed fear, hurt, anger… “It’s surgical, of course. Can’t ruin such a valuable item. The pelt can grant shapeshifting abilities, regardless of what type of Shifter it came from, most animals are accessible. They didn’t do it to any on our list, I assure you. They wouldn’t. You’re all pure breed. They prefer to use _cursed_ Shifters.” After half a second to confirm, Sherlock continued. “You didn’t know that bit, either. There are two ways Shifters come about. The first is obvious; they are born. The second is something of a punishment doled out by the higher Seelie and Unseelie courts; a curse.

“And cursed Shifters gain the Sight.”

Fear stirred in John now for another reason, because he didn’t have to think hard to guess where Sherlock was going now. “No.” He stood, forcing Sherlock back a step, and fisted his hands as anger crawled through his body under his skin, rising as heat does. “ _No_ Sherlock, that is absolutely not an option.”

“You’re wrong, it’s our best option. Not only for this case, but for every case after. If I’m going to work with you-”

" _NO!_ ” John grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pulled him in, which stunned the detective into silence. “No.” He hissed, his voice leveled and dark, a warning left from time as a soldier. “If you dare do something so fucking _vapid_ as _curse yourself_ , so you end up like _me_ ,” he spat the word and it was full of a self hatred he didn’t know was there, “so help me Sherlock Holmes _I will leave._ Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking _dare_ , or I won’t be here when you come back.” Nose clenched up, adding to the lines around his eyes, John let go and backed up a step, standing tall and formally as he took deliberate, calming breaths. “Promise me.”

Sherlock was completely taken aback, his chest aching with what he’d just seen. John pushing him out, John hating himself, John closing down every confidence and trust built between them. He didn’t consider it at all, the stakes were much too high. “I promise.” He breathed out, quiet but certain he could be heard.

The degree to which John visibly relaxed was like seeing their entire history in less than a second, from damaged stalwart soldier to comfortable confidant. And then he looked extremely weary, running his hand down his face and letting out a humorless, breathy chuckle.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Is that what you meant when you said you were stuck on the fringes?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed for a second. “More or less. What were you thinking?”

Another huffed laugh, berating himself for being foolish and emotional. “I dunno. You resented me?”

Lowering his brow now, Sherlock crossed his arms. “Honestly, John. Of all the things I could possibly resent you for…”

John looked up, now a sincere smile spreading on his face. “Really. What have I done to you?”

“Oh…” Sherlock’s face returned the sentiment. “Plenty of things.” He said, waving it off.

\---

Again, they waited until evening to go out in search of the sylph. Though they walked lightly around the cliffs that accentuated the beauty of the island, neither man felt that way. And neither wanted the other to notice. And they were both so busy hiding, neither did.

John, though his mind went over and over the newest revelation about Shifters, enjoyed the walk in it’s simplest terms. ‘ _It almost feels like a date._ ’ He allowed himself to think it as a joke, huffing a laugh to cement the fact it was only humor. But the brisk walk in the cool air, in the ambient atmosphere, next to the stoic figure in his trademark coat… it soothed a portion of John’s anxiety.

Sherlock, to his credit, didn’t completely ignore the setting. He looked around, able to appreciate the natural beauty. He, too, was thinking about their argument. If he concentrated, he could feel exactly where John had held him, and it left the impression not of a threat but a lifeline. ‘ _Don’t leave._ ’ It seemed to say. Which was contradictory, in logical terms, since taking on the ‘curse’ and becoming a Shifter too would only serve to bring them closer. But in John’s personal terms… he’d given Sherlock the data to see them quite clearly. This was a part of him he resented and hid from, and not for unsubstantial reasons. Even though he hadn’t said it, it was obvious John blamed himself for the abduction of the boys who showed him what he could do. That and his sister’s terrified reaction had made that event solidify in it’s power in his mind, even now.

“Sherlock, there.” John stirred them both out of their minds, pointing out over the cliffs past the crashing waves. “Don’t tell me we have to go on the ocean…”

Sherlock approached the cliff’s edge in the direction John had pointed. He stayed a few feet from the edge. “Is there anything else?” Sherlock looked down the cliff face, as well as he could from where he stood.

“No.” John looked at him quizzically.

“Which way are we going?”

John looked up at the sylph. “That’s a good question. Am I going to have to get a boat?”

_“No, Heira. And since you are yonef, I will offer advice.”_

“Um. My regards, but I humbly decline.” John replied.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, narrowing his eyes.

 _“This is not a favor, it is freely given, Heira.”_ She was starting to say this term with more and more affection. She flew up to his face. He didn’t flinch, but leaned back a little as she reached for him and cupped his face. _“Heira. Do not approach the cliffs after dusk, until the sun is above the horizon.”_

Then she backed up, flying up to where he wouldn’t be able to touch her even if he jumped, and giggled.

Sherlock turned around fully, looking sour. “Can we go?”

John looked at Sherlock as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Sherlock, come here.” He said suddenly, moving to meet him halfway.

Sherlock complied quietly, his curious gaze flicking over John. “What?”

John tugged him further from the cliffs, backing up a few extra steps. “We shouldn’t be near the edge.”

“Right. Because of the Bakkakarlinn. Did she tell you that?” He raised a brow. “For free?”

John sighed. “Yeah, and why didn’t you? Nevermind, you can fill me in on what the hell is in the dark around the cliffs later.” He wasn’t surprised, only frustrated. He looked up, and before he could ask, the sylph flew past him towards the center of the island. He let go of Sherlock and started after her.

\---

She led them to a lighthouse, which was very clearly marked as closed to the public. It was still lit, though, and someone indeed was inside at the top. As the sylph vanished, John clicked off his torch and wandered closer. “This is it.” He informed the man at his back.

“Yes. Out of the dozen structures on this island, it was the obvious choice.”

“Well next time I won’t look for the sylph at all, then.” John snarked, moving around the side of the structure while staying out of the light.

“You’re annoyed.”

“Yeah. Obvious.” John mimicked more accurately than Sherlock would ever admit.

“You need to start doing your own research, it’s ridiculous I consistently know more than you about-”

“Magic?” John finished, turning around and crossing his arms. “Why didn’t you take the case from Lestrade, Sherlock?”

Sherlock just looked at him with a deep frown. “Do not do this.” He said; a warning.

“Why not?”

“You’re angry.”

“Yeah, good. Brilliant.” Sherlock twinged, it cut deep John would use that word like this. “Answer me.”

“This is the more important case.”

“Nope.”

Sherlock deepened his frown. “What are you expecting me to say.” He looked over John’s face, his body language, and realized something. “You’ve had this conversation already, in your head. I don’t need to be here for it.” He moved past John to look around more, but John caught his arm.

“Don’t do that. You don’t get to ignore this because you think you already know everything.”

Sherlock grabbed the arm holding him, tempted to twist it off him. He just held it for now.

“Fine. Tell me.”

Even John didn’t know why that was his last straw, but it was. “You want to be in London, don’t think I don’t know that! You want to be working cases _you_ choose, that interest you. But you’re picking up after me instead, you’re babysitting me when I’m injured, and you’re talking to me about _curses_.” He threw Sherlock’s hand off him and turned to walk away.

“John!” Sherlock hissed through his teeth and grabbed roughly at his arms, throwing him against the wooden lighthouse wall and holding him there.

In surprise, John looked up in time to see a line of light dance around in the direction he’d been walking. Someone was looking for them.

“We should leave. Try again in the morning.”

John licked his lips, though after they prickled in the cold air.

\---

Later that night as he stared at the ceiling and tried to fall asleep, John couldn’t shake the fear of the curse. Sherlock had lied to him before, and quite easily. And of all the myriad of things John would do to keep his home, seeing Sherlock cursed as he was was _not_ one of them. Yelling at him wasn’t going to do any good, either. And it stung him, as he rolled over, because god he wanted to be home. Those things he’d yelled Sherlock was guilty of, he was worse. He didn’t want magic in his life, he wanted to work in England, in London, and he wanted, as he lay there in the cool night near the Arctic Circle and listened to Sherlock’s dexterous fingers typing away at the desk, to just feel sure of himself again.

They hadn’t spoken again, even once they were a safe distance from the lighthouse. And it wasn’t because John got the distinct impression they’d been seen, even if no one seemed to be following.

Even the next morning after nearly no sleep, as they sat in the little kitchen their suite had and drank much too much coffee, it seemed Sherlock was content to just ignore that the fight (or rather, outburst) had happened at all.

“What are we doing today?” John rubbed his circled eyes and poured himself a third cup of the strong black beverage.

“There is no record of the lighthouse belonging to anyone other than the local governing body or the settling people who built it. Whoever is in there, they’re playing things close to the chest.” Sherlock closed his laptop, tented his fingers, and took in his flatmate’s weary visage. “I suggest we break in.”

John groaned and put his head down in his arms. “Of course you do.”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked easily.

“Not at all. I haven’t got anything better.” There was a buzz and John pulled out his mobile. “Jesus. Harry’s left me twelve messages and now Mike’s texted on her behalf.”

Sherlock stayed silent but put out his hand. John blinked at him, then slapped the phone into his palm. Not like he could make it any worse.

John should not have underestimated Sherlock Holmes.

After he got the phone back, which was at the end of Sherlock’s pacing and typing, John checked to see what he’d done. His brows raised considerably when he saw the message to his sister.

_Harriet, your brother and I are in Iceland at the moment, working a case. Stop disturbing us. It's annoying._

“Sherlock oh my god,” John stood, his chair scraping against the floor as it was pushed suddenly backwards. “Why would you do that?!”

“Once she engages, give it back. It's easier for me to tell her off, she already thinks I'm a prat. And it's distracting you.”

“Sherlock…” John started using Sherlock’s pacing path, exasperated. “She's going to involve our bloody mother.”

“No.” Sherlock sat calmly with his tented fingers, eyes following John’s movement. “She won't.” John stopped to look at him incredulously. “She's already suspicious about your activities, she has an idea it involves your unspoken nature.”

John came over and put a hand in the table, leaning on it and wiping the other down his face. “How?”

“You haven't been reading any of these. She's included a link.” Sherlock nodded his head as in indication and John took his phone out. The article was already loaded once he opened his browser. “What is this?”

“You know what it is.”

“Yeah. Rhetorical.” John looked over the article, which was about the recently found body of a man about his age, found in a field out in the English countryside… he couldn’t fathom why Harry wanted him to see this, it wasn’t even an overly special case. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t take it. Cause of death was massive physical trauma to most of his body, obviously dumped there by a truck… identified as a boy who-

John stopped, and suddenly the name popped in his mind. “Shit.” He put his phone down on the table as if it were a bomb. “A boy who disappeared without a trace thirty years ago… so they did report it after all.”

As usual, Sherlock was staring intensely. Watching with a discerning gaze, collecting data. And for reasons he didn’t understand nor care about, John didn’t begrudge him. He didn’t feel like a slide under a microscope, or a crime scene, or anyone unlucky enough to be around Sherlock when he was bored. He felt the eyes on him and all it gave him was comfort.

He put both of his hands on the table, on either side of his phone. His eyes were shut and he was concentrating on his breathing.

“Is that what it’s really like?”

John looked up. “What?”

“He was a body, a case… until he became something else, because you knew him, and because of why you knew him.”

John watched, and Sherlock blinked. “Yeah. That’s what it’s like.” He stood and took two steps closer, so he was looking down and Sherlock tilted his head back to look him in the eye. “Who am I to anyone who doesn’t know me?” Sherlock gave him a look. “Humor me.”

“To an average person? A middle aged man on the shorter side, I suppose.”

“Sure.” John supposed that was mild, all things considered. “But how did you feel when I got shot?”

Sherlock’s thinking face twisted into a deep, dark frown. “Is that an average reaction?”

“Yes, Sherlock. This can’t be the first time… unless you deleted it.”

“Not unlikely, it seems like it wouldn’t be helpful.”

John sighed, feeling a bit better. “That’s… close to how I feel now. But more… dread. Is involved.”

“And guilt.” Sherlock said, before he could think about the repercussions.

John went through a myriad of facial expressions, which in other circumstances would have been funny. “How do you think I feel guilty?”

“You’ve avoided the subject until you felt safe and vulnerable, just like with magic. And you’ve told me you feel guilty about that in many ways. Should I list them off?”

“No. But thanks for the option.”

Sherlock noted that. “You don’t want to discuss it, though.”

“No. But at least I know why Harriet is jumping back into my life so aggressively.”

“Yes, she thinks about if it were you in that field because she didn’t find you in time.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “How could you possibly figure that?”

“I know it, because that’s what I was thinking when you were taken.”

John took two steps back and turned on his heel. “That’s my limit. I’m going to the lighthouse.”

More confused than ever, Sherlock stood apprehensively. “John?” He stood and grabbed his coat.

\---

Sherlock dogged after John, who was walking directly across the field they crossed the night before very quickly. His cane at times sank into the earth, but since it was below freezing, that wasn’t often. It didn’t seem to slow him down any.

As it obviously wasn’t working, Sherlock had stopped calling after John and just followed. He had no idea whatsoever what he’d said wrong, or why John didn’t say anything now.

The lighthouse, a bright orange wooden structure made mostly of driftwood by knowledgeable men of the craft, could be seen far off. There were no trees to speak of, nor anything else around to block off the view of it. At the base of it stood a figure, and Sherlock also noticed the flicker of someone sucking on a cigarette on the balcony above. Both walked around the building and out of sight, though it was before John could know if they’d been seen. Sherlock was certain they had been.

When they finally made their way there and walked around to the front, they saw the figure standing halfway between the cliffs and the lighthouse door. She had been looking out on the ocean, but turned now to face them. The breeze caught her full length coat and threw it around her wildly.

She was taller even than Sherlock by a good three inches, with ice eyes that rivaled the detective’s and straight, white hair that was tugged neatly back in a tail which draped from high up on her head to the small of her back. Her dark skin was mottled all over, and she carried herself with an easy grace as she looked down at them with a level, neutral face.

“You should not be here, Heira.” She said in a smooth, deep voice in a heavy accent Sherlock recognized as hailing from the middle of Africa somewhere. His theory about shift pertaining to origin was called into serious question.

John stopped ten feet back and leaned on his cane. “Neither should you. Why are you here?”

“We are taken to the places we need to be.” She answered simply, blinking slowly.

John pushed down his many objections and his strong feelings about that sort of thinking. “Well we’re here to take you somewhere you won’t be a slave.”

“I rather think not, Doctor Watson.”

John turned his gaze up in surprise. He hadn’t seen the figure above them; a pale man, medium build from what John could see, with his greyish hair either cropped oddly or just hanging at a weird angle as he looked down. He had a more subtle accent than the woman’s; a French one. He flicked the ashes off his cigarette down towards John, though it was entirely an empty gesture with the wind as it was.

“Is that so?” John scoffed, looking up at him with a hand over his eyes to block the rising sun. “And who exactly are you?”

“Gibson Blythe, if you must know. What business have you in taking other Shifters. You were sold.”

John wasn’t much of a fan of this new fame, but he supposed most everyone on this case would recognize him. “You can’t buy people, Mr Blythe.”

He looked curiously at John, taking a long drag that finished his cig. He drew out and lit another. “People…. No, not in most places these days. But that isn’t what you or her are, is it?” He grinned a yellowed smile. “If a pig could talk, would you stop eating bacon?”

Deciding at that moment this man didn’t possess the logic needed to have a discussion, John turned to see what Sherlock wanted to do now. He wasn’t there.

“Ma Belle, I think I’d like to see you fight Doctor Watson there. His holier than thou attitude is annoying.”

John turned quickly to look at the woman who was still staring at him. He gripped his cane, which had proven to be an excellent weapon.

But she still did not move. “I will not do that.”

“I’ll be entertained either way, you know that.” The Frenchman revealed a small black box with a wicked grin, and the other Shifter crumbled down into the tall grass.

John ran to her, putting down his cane beside her. She was spasming. He rolled her on her side to keep her from choking, and recognized the effects of electric shock. The black box must be a controller, if he could find the device…

She stopped, laying still. Panting, she opened her eyes to look at John. He saw no fear or pain in them, which greatly surprised him. She pulled the white fluffy ruff down on her neck, and John saw the same tall jeweled collar she wore at auction.

“Of course it’s a bloody collar, what the fuck else would these pricks ever use?” He mumbled, trying to check for a latch or something. Sherlock was much better at this part. Where the hell was he?

Jolting as she grabbed his hand and pushed it off, John watched in horror as she started spasming in his arms. He jerked his head around to the top of the lighthouse, thinking if he could only throw something up that far…

Then he knew where Sherlock had gone, because he knocked the Frenchman over the head and took the device before settling him on the floor.

A hand touched John’s face and he turned back to the woman beside him. “We are taken to the places we need to be, Heira.”

Staring, John couldn’t begin to understand what she was thinking of. “This bloody thing made it so you couldn’t fight back... or, I’m assuming, escape?” He asked while carefully sitting her up and inspecting her pupils with his pocket light.

“Escape to where? I have nothing, no currency nor identification. How would I get from this island to anywhere?”

John frowned deeply. She had a solid point. “Is there someone we can call?” He’d finished his assessment of her physical state, now he was looking for a way to get off the device around her neck.

“Take care, there is both a confined distance and some manner of tamper prevention in this.”

“We need the bloody bomb squad…”

“Maybe.” Sherlock had returned, kneeling behind the Shifter and looking closely at the device.

“Sherlock. What happened? Didn’t he have other security?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock scoffed. “He seems the type who has more money than sense. Likely thought there was no need in a place like this.” He stood, taking the black box from his pocket and handing it over. “I need my laptop. The controller has a port on it, I may be able to program it.”

“She can’t come with us, there’s some sort of tracker. If she leaves the immediate area, the collar goes off.”

“Hm. I’ll go. Perhaps you can stay with Mr Blythe. Persuade him to assist me when I return.”

John nodded, and Sherlock put out a hand to help him stand.

\---

There wasn’t so much as a lift in the lighthouse. It had been renovated, but only modestly, more of a restoration in all likelihood. There were racks built into the walls filled with bottles of wine, an industrial sized refrigerator, and a small kitchen in the base of it. And a dumbwaiter that fed itself up the stairwell. John guessed most of the owner’s time was spent upstairs, and moved further in and up.

The only other floor was the top, where the light was. It was a directional lamp, so though the space in the light’s path was clear, the rest of the wide room was well furnished; a cushy yet moderately sized bed surrounded by thick curtains, drawn back until he had use of them, a similarly styled wardrobe. Apparently the snooty twit fancied himself an artist, because there were plenty of supplies for painting. All unused.

What seemed to actually take up his time was a comfortable chair set up so he could look out on the ocean, a table beside it made up for nosh and wine, a thick rug dusted in white hairs running beneath them, and a row of bookshelves. All full, circling around the outer wall of the entire floor.

It was actually making less and less sense to John as he went out to see Sherlock had bound the Frenchman’s wrists behind his back, and that he was not yet conscious. That didn’t bode well. John bent down to look him over, as he likely had a concussion.

This man, apparently seeking solace and simple refinery, also had an enormous ego and a Shifter like she was a pet. A lot of his traits seemed to contradict, if you went by common correlation or stereotypes. The last woman had been easy, almost ridiculously easy, to understand.

“What’s he like?” John asked, running his fingers over the bump at the base of Blythe’s skull.

“Quiet. And rather obsessed with the image in his mind. He is only content at sundown, with a glass of wine in one hand, a book in the other, and a tamed beast at his feet. I think he means to commission a portrait of exactly that, but so far he cannot stand to have anyone else around him.”

“Hm.” John finished his assessment and, deciding their captive wasn’t in any medical danger, turned to the Shifter. “Sorry. In the odd circumstances I forgot to introduce myself. Doctor John Watson. And the other man is my partner, Sherlock Holmes.”

Giving a curt nod to him, the woman offered her hand. “And I am Cennerous, of the Theluji clan, and emissary for my people.”

As he shook her hand, John tried to push down the anxiety, but was sure some of it showed on his face from how Cennerous was regarding him. “Emissary? You were sent as a representative?”

“Yes. I was caught while on my journey from my village to meet with another clan in North America.”

“How did they find you?”

“I am not certain. But there was another ataem helping them.”

“Another what, sorry?”

“Ataem. It is the Fari language, as is Heira. Ataem is one like us, but not us. _Them_. Heira is a term of endearment for those like us. Family. Sister.” She smiled at John, the first real expression she’d given. “Brother. But you reject your Fari side. Why is that?”

“Uh.” John rubbed behind his head. She was asking a question he had become familiar with, but from the other side of things. “Nothing good has happened to me from being… Fae. Or part Fae, or whatever we are. The most important things in my life have been from humans.”

Tilting her head, still dusted with the vague remembrance of her smile, Cennerous but a hand on John’s shoulder. “Why then, Heira, are you here?”

John blinked, taken by surprise. “It’s the right thing.”

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead, just under his hairline.

“How did you find me?”

Both Shifters turned to look at Blythe. John turned to face him, sitting on the floor to maintain eye level. “You’re not in a position to be asking questions. Are you going to cooperate now?”

“I told Kelley I didn’t want this, I’d be fine here.” Blythe mumbled. “She was supposed to be a bodyguard, alright? But I wasn’t going to train her, I guess my brother thought she could fight already. I don’t know. I just wanted to be left alone.”

“Your brother.”

“Yes, he bought her. I haven’t left this island in two years.”

“Who is your brother?”

A squeaking started nearby, and they looked over to watch the rope for the dumbwaiter shake, and slowly the little box came into view. John recognized the footsteps that followed it upwards.

“Kelley Blythe?” Sherlock drawled as he surfaced, now carrying his laptop. He walked to the far side of the staircase to access the dumbwaiter, withdrawing a dusty bottle of wine. “Unlatch the collar, if you please.”

“I can’t.” Blythe hissed at Sherlock, getting riled up at the sight of him.

Sherlock walked over and sat on his haunches, bottle hanging loosely from his hand as it rested on his knee, and looked over Blythe very carefully.

“I suppose not. You didn’t even have a computer here, you’re not one for technology.” Sherlock stood and helped himself to the cushy chair and dragged the side table around to use as a desk. He pulled a wire from his coat and beckoned Cennerous over. “Miss…”

“Cennerous Theluji.”

Sherlock thinned his lips. “Miss Theluji. Please come over and make yourself comfortable so I can see what I’m dealing with.”

John sat back against the railing. It was definitely preferable to the last case, but this seemed almost too easy.

That was a foolish thing to think.

\---

Two hours was about all John thought he could stand as far as the clacking of keys and, seeing as the glass cut out most of the crashing ocean, not much else.

Apparently, their host felt the same. “For god’s sake, can’t someone else give it a go? That gentleman, perhaps?”

Sherlock scoffed, not looking up. Blythe had helped him figure out the password, but apparently there was quite a bit of code to go through in order to find the safe release. The one that wouldn’t result in death. “John? I wouldn’t think so, not with a WPM speed of about ten.”

“Hey. I don’t strictly understand, but I’m guessing I should be greatly offended.” John retorted.

“This will take some time without access to my contacts.” Sherlock said, ignoring him. “You might as well begin questioning.”

“Questioning? You’re not police! Just take her and leave!”

Finally getting a purpose, John stood and stretched. “Yeah, even if you didn’t go to the auction yourself, you know more about the Shifter trade. Tell me Mr Blythe, if you’re not a supporter of slavery, why were you complicit in the crime?” John turned to him with a frown.

“What are you talking about? I don’t deal with slaves!”

“Look at her. What is she?”

“She-”

“No! Actually look and tell me, what do you see?”

Blythe looked at Cennerous, who looked blankly back. She was careful not to jostle the cable running between her collar and Sherlock’s computer.

“I know…” He looked back at John, “She _looks_ human.”

“You’re very ignorant for someone so well read.” Sherlock commented. “Did you not know anyone as a person first, and a Shifter later?”

John looked from Sherlock to Blythe, interested in how this was going. “Well?”

“No, of course not. What does that matter?”

“Okay, in that case… who exactly do you see as beneath you? Not personally, but as a group. Minorities? Queer folk? Women?” Sherlock continued, not seeming at all distracted from the computer. “People below the poverty line?”

“You think you’re a saint, do you, Monsieur Holmes? I know who you are, what you do. You might have different measurements, but you’re more full of yourself than I am. Everyone is but a child at the feet of the superior enqueteur Holmes. At least I do not seek them out to tell them how little I think of them all. I stay here, alone, out of the way. I did not even want her here, I only wanted my brother to back off.”

That made John uncomfortable and angry, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Hm. I also don’t stand idle when the people in my company are in chains. Though no…” Sherlock looked over with a blandness in his face, “I am by no means a ‘saint’.”

“I’d watch what I was saying more carefully if I were you, Mr Blythe.” John huffed, looking down on him. “You’re tied up on the floor.”

“Yes, and helping even. You savages. You’re as bad as those PETA people…”

“I suggest you take Doctor Watson seriously. He is, as they say, the ‘good cop’ of our operation.” Sherlock hummed, backspacing to erase a line of data he’d written.

“Yeah, and what are you going to do? Hit me again when I’m not looking?”

“No, though to be fair you were inflicting savage electrical shocks for the fun of it. If you don’t listen to John…” Sherlock stood, pushing the little table away carefully, and stretched his arms up over his head. He swooped down to collect the bottle of wine he’d had before and turned it over in his hand. “Montrachet 2003.” He read off the bottle. “Hm. Impressive. There aren’t many left, are there?” He tossed the bottle end over end in the air. Blythe gasped. Sherlock caught it. “In case that went over your head, Monsieur, I will begin to pour your collection out into the ocean.” He looked smugly at the horror and disdain on their captive’s face. “Bottle opener?”

\---

In the end, the case was spectacularly easy, especially comparatively. Blythe had given several names and contacts that his brother kept, those likely involved in the Shifter trade. Sherlock texted them off to Mycroft as soon as he was done with the collar, which left deep indents in Cennerous’ neck. And that Sherlock fastened around Blythe’s thick neck, with the quip ‘I’m sure someone will be along eventually to let you out.’

Upon learning who Cennerous apparently was, Mycroft sent word a helicopter would come collect her.

“She wasn’t kidding, was she? Some sort of foreign dignitary?” John mulled uncomfortably over it as he folded his socks and tossed them in the suitcase.

“Seems so.” Sherlock said dismissively as he sat at the kitchen table in his thinking pose.

“How did they get her in the first place, then? And why wasn’t there more fuss about her going missing?”

“Likely there was. Just not in our news.”

John leaned over the case, looking through it for his toothbrush. “But she’d have had protection, wouldn’t she?”

“It isn’t so hard to conceive. Remember what Mycroft told us; many of these Shifter families and groups are old and powerful. But they can’t seem to stop their people being taken and sold.”

“Yeah…” John mumbled, remembering his toothbrush was still in the bathroom and going to fetch it. “That’s what concerns me.”

“What puzzles me, John, is why are the Fae not helping? Bluebell cannot be the first to think to seek their assistance. And given what we’ve learned about what they keep calling you, ‘Heira’, they like your kind just fine.”

“A little too much.” John came back and threw the handful of things he’d left in the bathroom into the case. “They keep trying to get me over there.”

Sherlock sat up tall, then got up and approached John just as he was sitting down on the bed and running his hand back through his hair. “You’re right. That’s likely the answer.”

“What? Sherlock, are we not leaving today? We need to go catch our flight.” John sighed as he checked his watch.

“The next time a Neighbor asks you to follow them into the Faerie realm, ask them if a human can go.”

John furrowed his brow, looking up at his detective’s scheming face as it hovered above him. “You know they can, as long as they have the Sight.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock stood and zipped up the case, taking it up. “Come, John, we’ll miss our flight.”

Pushing down his irritation, John grabbed his jacket, flicked off the lights, and followed.

\---

The flight they wanted to catch was the last one that day, and though it was just a 15 minute walk to the airport they were already running late. As such, they chose to cut directly towards it instead of taking the path that wound a good ways back from the cliffs.

The sun was setting, casting their shadows down to run through the flowing grass beside them, the crashing waves spraying up enough they felt the mist shimmering with the last of the light.

Sherlock was mindful of the warning from their arrival, but John was distracted by checking his watch and calculating if they’d make it in time. His foot came down on rock instead of grass and at first he thought he was slipping on the wet surface.

“Sher-!”

The detective skidded on his heel as he swiveled around, then tossed the case down in alarm. It landed on a nest Sherlock had been careful to avoid until this point. “John!”

But John hadn’t slipped, the cold he’d felt on his foot was a hand of dark mist, the tug towards the edge it’s surprisingly solid grip. His chest hit the rock hard, knocking the breath out of him as his hands scrambled to get a hold of something. He didn’t have his cane, he must have dropped it in surprise.

Sherlock slid in and grabbed John’s hand in both of his. Of course, he could see nothing of the thing pulling John down, nor could he hear the awful cawing screech the creature gave off. Sherlock’s eyes wildly searched their area, he wouldn’t be able to hold long with the strength of the Bakkakarlinn pulling as much as it was. He spotted the cane a foot away and lunged for it, but seagulls swooped in around him. In John’s awareness now was a cacophony of the birds and the creature. He yelled, cementing his grip on Sherlock as the waves below cast up an icy spray that half soaked John’s trousers. The shock of it made him flinch and gasp, and he looked down.

The Bakkakarlinn looked as if it were made of an angry black storm cloud, in the shape of a man, with firefly eyes. At times the swirling mass of its face illuminated in the red sky of the setting sun opened, looking like a gaping maw.

“Shit. Shit.” John lifted his other arm to clasp harder to Sherlock, who was being pecked and clawed at without either hand to defend.

“John, I have to let go. Just with my left hand.” Sherlock huffed, squinting and ducking his head. One of the deeper scratches on his head dripped a thick line of dark red down his nose.

“Sherlock-”

“It’s going to be alright. I have to. Hold on.”

John moved his grasp to Sherlock’s right arm, slipping a few inches as the creature wriggled to upset the balance as John’s legs rubbed against the rough rock face.

Sherlock batted at the gulls, then reached out for the alder cane. “You need to use it!”

“Sherlock, what?!”

Passing the wood down even as John slipped lower, John tried to grab for Sherlock’s other arm, but missed. They had a good grip on each other, but with only one arm each. “I can’t, use the cane!”

Panic rising up as what John suspected was a side effect of the Bakkakarlinns touch, he grabbed the cane tightly and swung it out around his legs. “Fuck off!” He bellowed.

As the wood moved through the creature, it dissipated with an angry hiss.

Sherlock hauled John up slowly, the doctor digging his feet into crags where he could find them to scramble towards safety.

Once fully on the cliff, John swung out again, at the gulls, catching one of them pretty square in the chest. It screeched and flew off, the others following.

The two men collapsed a few feet back, in the grass, panting.

Sherlock caught his sense back first, pushing himself up on his elbows and turning over to look at John in the face. He looked livid. “You need to smarten the hell up, John.” He hissed.

John opened his eyes to see his detective was right in his bloody face. “What?” He huffed, still not remotely calmed down.

“You’re extremely aware of _physical_ dangers, John! But denying the change in your life is denying the other dangers we need to handle now! If you took it as seriously, this wouldn’t keep happening. Wake up! You didn’t want to be a part of this, too bad! It’s happening!”

“Oh, bugger off Sherlock.” John clamped his eyes shut and tried to control his fear and spiking adrenaline. He pushed his detective’s face away with his palm, positively infuriating the already ticked man.

“No!”

John opened his eyes to glare, pushing his hand harder over Sherlock’s mouth and cutting him off. “You have no earthly idea what it’s like, Sherlock.” He seethed, breath and gaze heavy as his heart refused to slow. “What I see, all the time. I’ve cut it to a backdrop before and now it’s just like I’m a kid again with waking nightmares, only now I can’t tell myself it’s just my imagination, can I?” He held firm as Sherlock raised his hands to John’s wrist. He didn’t pull him off. “Having a laugh in a pub while something dark with dripping fangs and anatomically impossible sets of eyes all over it growls at me. Setting bones as some kind of goblin giggles in my ear how nice human children taste. Running across London’s streets in the rain, having to decide in a split second if that thing in the rain on the rooftop to our left is really there, is a threat to us, or if it’s just some corrupted spirit that wants out. Wants the healing the water brings. The Sight isn’t a gift, Sherlock. The warrah is _not a gift_. It’s a fucking curse, and it’s one I kept at bay a good long while. If I ignore them well enough, I don’t see them as much. It’s why I couldn’t leave London once I got there. There are so few Neighbors in a city that big.”

Sherlock waited, hands resting on John’s wrist but not putting any weight on it. He watched his huffing flatmate wind down, having gotten things out a bit.

John let his hand fall off Sherlock’s face.

“I _don’t_ know. You’re right. But this is not the first time you were put in danger because you chose not to learn about this. You don’t have to acknowledge them to teach yourself what they can do and keep it in mind. If something makes you uncomfortable, you can’t push it out of the way until it gives up. You need to learn to deal with it, what you can and can’t do, what you’re willing to do.”

“I don’t want this.”

“I know.”

John let his face sag in weary resignation. “But I have it.” Just saying that made his throat threaten to collapse in him and anxiety throb through him. It eased a bit when Sherlock gave him a small smile and a nod. “I will try.” John mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock looked at him affectionately, huffing out the last of his exasperation. He stood carefully, taking John’s cane and handing it to him. Then he helped the cane help him stand. “Come on. If we are very, very fortunate… we can still catch the ferry back and take the midnight flight from Siglufjordur to London.”

\---

One sickeningly choppy ferry ride later, John slumped into his airline seat and wondered what the procedure was if a passenger refused to get up when they landed. He could sleep for a week.

“I don’t think I could have taken more than that pompous Frenchman this trip, honestly.” He announced, resting his head back on the neck pillow he’d purchased in the airport.

“He was from Quebec, actually.”

“Wha- really?” John was barely following.

Sherlock turned to look at John and huffed at him. “Yes. The Quebecois accent is scores different from the French accent. How is it you didn’t pick up on it?”

“I don’t pay attention to that sort of thing.”

“Do you live in Europe? How is it you’ve never heard an authentic French accent before?”

“Sher- ok, that’s enough.”

“Honestly, John.”

“Sherlock. Cut it out.”

His detective turned away again, mumbling to himself. “This wouldn’t happen if you read my website…”

“I tried.” John didn’t miss that, though he wasn’t sure if Sherlock actually intended him not to. “I got through about twenty variations of tobacco ash. That was it for me.”

After a comfortable silence and the Icelandair safety demonstration, the lights dimmed in the plane. John was already drifting.

“Hm. We’re tied, Mycroft’s found two as well. That takes South America off our list.”

“Got back to you, did he?” John mumbled.

“Yes. To let us know his people have picked up Miss Theruji.”

“Did he say which ones he’s found?”

“No. Though I suspect we’d know if it were Bluebell. He did, however, send a friendly warning.”

“What’s that?” John murmured, sitting back as they took off.

“Your sister’s picking us up at Heathrow.”

That woke John like a bucket of ice water.

\---

If you happened to get off a flight at Heathrow airport in London England, at 3:45 in the morning, on a very particular winter’s day… here’s what you’d see:

Standing beside a bundled up lady and leaning on her car’s hood was Sherlock, and the two of them watched in silent regard as the Watson siblings had a row. She was the last late shift cab in the carport, and lucky for them it was nearly dead otherwise around their choice of exit. She poured out some of her coffee into the thermos’ lid and handed it over. Sherlock took it, never looking away from the fight, and blew on the dense steam rising from the strongest coffee he’d ever have.

“I have no clue, no idea why the hell, after all this time, you’re getting yourself sucked into this bullshit again, John! And don’t you dare try to deny it, you went missing and they came to try covering it up, make sure I wouldn’t raise a stink, and I know why. It’s exactly like back at the beach house, _exactly_ , and now you’re running all over the world! What are you thinking, John?! That dead man in the field would have been you if I hadn’t shown up-”

“Damn it Harriet you always throw this bollocks in my face! I’m a bloody adult, I can take care of myself!”

“You sure as hell think you can, that’s what you’ve been doing your whole life! Playing soldier and now running around with your _gun-”_ she hissed quietly, “yeah I know you have it, I pay attention to your stupid cases with that giant arsehole.” She waved her arm in Sherlock’s direction. He took a sip of his coffee. “All to convince yourself you’re not just some kid anymore, powerless, but let me tell you-”

“Harry! That’s enough! You said all this already, before I shipped off for god’s sake, why do you think I never call?! I’ve had more than enough of your self righteous bullshit! Why don’t you sort yourself out before coming after me, hm?”

“I’m not the one who keeps getting kidnapped and shot, John. And making up nieces?! What the hell is that about?! If Clara had gotten that message first, she’d have flipped!”

“Yeah and how is Clara by the way? She’s always been the one to stop you coming after me to yell ignorant shit in my face.”

She slapped him, hard. He stopped to glare, huffing his breaths with dark circles under his eyes.

“You’ve always got to look for something else, anything you can focus on instead of your own problems. That’s all this is, this you don’t like my job, you don’t like my military service, you don’t like my flatmate… it’s easier that facing yourself and your own problems. Stop pretending you give two shits about me and my circumstances, Harriet.” John spoke in a faux calm, low and measured. “I’m going home. Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t leave messages. And for the love of god, delete Mrs Hudson’s number so I don’t have to help her change it.” John turned and walked towards Sherlock and the cab.

“John!” Harry screeched behind him, tears shaking from her eyes. “You can’t keep shutting me out, John Hamish Watson! I’m not going anywhere!”

“Come on.” John commanded, getting into the cab and shutting the door. Sherlock downed the rest of his beverage and handed the lid back.

The cab driver looked back at Harry, clenching her fists and sobbing in the dimly lit exit. “Is she gonna be alright?”

Sherlock followed her gaze and hiked up his scarf against the cold. “That’s entirely up to her.” He said, voice as chilly as the weather. Then he went around, told the driver “Baker Street.” and got in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit in here inspired by a comic done by my goddamn idol, Reapersun. Here's a link to the page itself:  
> http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/40689137351/full-res-1-30-day-otp-challenge-day-23  
> A link if you wanna start from the beginning:  
> https://www.google.ca/amp/reapersun.tumblr.com/post/35848470628/30-day-otp-challenge-day-1-holding-hands-day/amp  
> And the artists patreon, because fund this asshole.  
> https://www.patreon.com/reapersun
> 
> I want to say now that certain things Sherlock knows are accounted for later on, so you can't call bullshit on them. In case anyone (rightly) points out John never told him this or that. It's established how that happened later.
> 
> I also want to reiterate how much I appreciate and encourage comments.


	19. A Drama In Four Acts: Part 3, Norsk Skaukatt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The action ramps up.
> 
> AKA Sherlock behaves himself a hell of a lot more than John, for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this research into real world places, especially with the stipulation being 'away from civilization', is making me want to travel. Too bad I'm super poor!

“John, if you don’t do your exercises and you continue to push yourself, you’re going to end up needing that cane in the long run. Not just for another month or two.”

John closed his eyes and let out a leveled breath. He was sitting with his physiotherapist, finally following up with her after being in hospital. He’d missed the last five sessions, or rather every single one since he’d been released. But right now, doing something real while also facing himself in a way he could handle was preferable to going on another case (in bloody Canada of all places) or being at Baker Street.

“How bad is it?”

The therapist looked at her file and shook her head. “It’s not  _ good _ , I’ll say that much. There’s still a chance you can recover properly, but only if you stop working now and listen to me. Actually come see me when you’re supposed to.”

“I’ll be honest…” John adjusted his leg, it had begun to get sore, “I’m not sure I can stop right now. The case I’m on, it’s very important. Lives depend on me doing this.”

Huffing at him, the therapist put the file down and crossed her legs. “I’m aware of who you are, Doctor Watson. I was made sure I would know, when I was assigned to you. So let me put it a different way; if you do this particular case, now, who will help the people you can’t once you’ve damaged yourself beyond repair? Sometimes you need to put your own needs first to be helpful to others.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Especially this current case. That is, I’m assuming, where you got that nasty bruise on your ankle.”

John thinned his lips. He hadn’t noticed until she looked him over how much damage the Bakkakarlinn had done. “Yeah.”

“So what would you be saying in my place? I know it isn’t your specialty, but if one of your patients were acting as you are.”

John felt very understanding now about how Strel hated him talking down to her, but he couldn’t deny either it was effective. “I’d be annoyed, at the very least.”

“There you go. I can’t hold your hand, or I might. But I hope I’ll see you in three days for your next appointment. I’ve moved it up. Do your exercises and stop pushing yourself.”

John sighed and stood to shake her hand. “I’ll try.”

\---

Mike Stamford walked into his regular bar (or what had become his regular, this one was a ways from his flat. He didn’t drink much anyway) at a much earlier time of day than he was used to. It was fairly quiet, too late for lunch but much too early for the dinner crowd. It was easy to get to his friend and put his jacket on the back of his stool.

“Little early for that, mate.” He pointed out, seeing John was at the bottom of his pint of dark ale.

“Probably. I guess Harry is rubbing off on me.” His almost-grin faded immediately. “No. Sorry, I shouldn’t say that sort of garbage.”

Mike smiled sympathetically and ordered himself a pint as well. Not like he was working today. “That’s alright. I get it.”

“Thanks for coming. I apologize, you’ve been caught up in my family drama.” John offered, laughing cynically.

“That’s not a problem, but why’s it happening? If I can ask.” He greeted his beer and nodded to the waiter. “When we were at Bart’s you’d have tiffs, sure, but now you’re not speaking?”

“You _should_ know, if we’re both dragging you in the middle. She didn’t like me joining the army, we had a screaming fit right before I left. Haven’t spoken properly since.” John lifted his glass to request a refill.

“John. It’s more than that. You don’t have to talk to me…”

“If I didn’t want to talk to you, I wouldn’t have invited you.”

“Fair point. What I mean is, you’ve been in London now for a couple years and she’s never come to me before now. She’s at her wits end. Why? Should I be worried? Or rather, more worried than I already am?”

John got his beer but only took a sip, nursing this one. “I dunno Mike. Probably. Things got real big, real fast. I only like to think I know what to do. I’m completely out to sea these days. Sherlock’s had to become the reasonable one.”

Mike snorted. “Really. How’s that look on him?”

“Damn weird by all accounts. But he’s not terrible at it.”

“Well seeing someone important get shot will do that to a fellow. What did you say before? It was almost poetic… Ah yes; ‘It was worth a wound’. In his own way, I’d think Holmes agrees. Not with you getting hurt, but about what it helped him learn.”

“He’s likely learned it before, only he deleted it.”

“Talk like that is what make people think he’s a machine.”

“It’s usually what he prefers.” John said dismissively, though he thought on that while taking another sip.

“If Strel isn’t your niece, John, who is she?” Mike asked after a prolonged silence.

John looked around and lowered his voice. “She’s an orphan Sherlock and I found on a case recently. I can’t go into it but she was trafficked so we think it’s safest she stay at Baker Street until we close the ring. That’s what we’ve been working on lately.”

Mike furrowed his brow, matching John’s volume. “You can’t bring Lestrade into it? The Yard can protect her, right?”

“It’s not that simple. We trust Lestrade, but a lot of powerful people are involved. We can’t be sure people higher up won’t send her back and cover it up.”

“Jesus…” Mike leaned back and took a long draw, coming away with foam on his lip.

“Yeah. And now…” John coughed and brought his voice back to regular levels, “with my bloody leg…”

“I know this case is very important John, but I can also guess what your physio said.  _ You _ , I’m sure could.”

“Yeah that’s exactly what she said. That’s just one of the things I’m wrestling with. If I see things this bad, how am I supposed to sit in the flat doing stretches?”

“You’ve already started on what you  _ can _ do, mate. Ask for help. I agree Sherlock should not be going out alone, and that he works best with you over anyone… but I also think the two of you are taking on too much by yourselves.”

John thought back to his talk with Mycroft, when he’d said almost exactly that to someone else. Who was he to mouth off? Well, it  _ was _ to Mycroft… “We’re getting some help, from his brother.”

“If you’re still hurting yourself, it’s not enough.”

“Sherlock won’t be able to do this case with anyone else, and we can’t just leave it to Mycroft.”

“What about the bird he came in with while you were gone?”

“Hm?” John looked carefully at his friend.

“You know, the tiny thing following him around? I saw them come see Molly a few weeks back. She was cute. Wouldn’t mind an introduction.” Mike smirked.

“Oh. Bl- uh… Miss LeCoup. Right. No, she’s… caught up, at the moment. If we can get her help, we will. But I’m not introducing her to you, I hardly know her. We met once. Ask Sherlock.”

That incited a bellowed laugh that John got caught up in. “I’m not doing poorly enough to ask Sherlock Holmes for a set up. Even if he agreed, I doubt it’d be fun for me.”

“Yeah, I dunno. He’d probably be oddly good at it, though.” John took another sip while Mike polished his off.

“What’re we doing here, mate. You could have waited to see me until at least the evening, or apologized by text or a call.”

John stared at his nearly full pint, his age showing in his face under the poor lighting in the pub. “I don’t want to go home just now.” He laughed weakly. “How sad is that, for a full grown man?”

“S’not sad, in my opinion. Why, though? Harry’s not there, is she?”

“God no. I don’t think Sherlock and her could be in the same room without something exploding. No, it’s more… going home means making some hard choices. And if Sherlock’s involved in these choices… it just wouldn’t be fair to him. This case is already supremely unfair to him.”

Mike sat patiently, listening. God love him, this is why John liked to spend time in pubs with the man.

“He’s taking this case because it’s important to me. It isn’t really his sort of thing, and it requires us to go all over the place. Out of London, England even. He hasn’t said it, but I know he hates it.”

“Sherlock hates doing something and hasn’t said it?” Mike asked with a knowing smile.

“Exactly! And he keeps talking about doing something incredibly dangerous on top of it.” John huffed. Then he thought… Sherlock really only brought it up once. John was the one obsessing over his mention of the curse. Was it because he didn’t believe Sherlock wouldn’t try, or was it some other reason…

“He’s growing up, hm?”

John looked up, looking entirely taken aback. Mike’s expression was soft and friendly. 

“Makes it all that much harder to be the adult. It’s easy enough when you have to check up on someone else, to be responsible. But he’s grown up enough that you have a bit more freedom. It’s not an easy transition.”

John sat in silence for some time after that, his mind turning over and over. It was so much harder to hear this from Mike, because he couldn’t dismiss it. And it was true.

John licked his lips. “Yeah. I think… I think I should go home now.”

“Cheers.” Mike said simply as John, in a sort of trance, grabbed his coat, left a ten pound note on the table, and took off.

Chuckling slightly, Mike pulled the abandoned dark ale towards himself.

\---

“Soldier-who-got-shot!”

The scene John had come home to was surreal. In retrospect, it wasn’t entirely uncommon to think that when coming into 221B. Now, though, the Holmes brothers were both sitting, Sherlock in John’s chair and Mycroft in his, looking very sour indeed. Both twins were there now, the one John identified as Strel by her clothing sitting as she did at Sherlock’s feet with his laptop. Mads, who was in a dress shirt modified quickly into a dress with a couple of belts, was behind Mycroft, knees on the back and hands on the grumpy man’s shoulder. Andrea was tapping with her familiar, standing behind them all next to the fireplace.

After initially looking up as Mads shouted and pointed at John, Mycroft turned back to Sherlock. “As I was saying, had you informed me you’d found the girl and was keeping her here, we could have avoided a lot of grief.”

“Yeah, hello to you, too.” John huffed, not remotely under his breath. He settled for sitting himself down on the couch for now.

“You didn’t tell me you’d located her either, so don’t start.” Sherlock replied, containing his spite.

Mads ran over and jumped on the couch beside John, wiggling herself in beside him. He didn’t know what to do about that, so he did nothing.

“You will, of course, be taking the other one as well.” Mycroft drawled.

“No. And if you thought that the wisest course, you’d have brought Maddie here much earlier. You can’t trust anyone else with her, can you? And with your assistant running over the world for you, you have to babysit on your own, don’t you? How novel.” Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft frowned deeply.

“She’s attached to you.” Sherlock added, smug. So was Strel to him, but his twin was reserved and quiet.

“Must be nostalgic.” John said in a disarmingly normal voice. “Taking care of kids again. How much older are you than Sherlock? Almost a decade?”

“Seven years.” The Holmes’ rang together, glaring after. John stifled a laugh. Mads beside him mimicked it.

“What’s the matter, Mycroft. Can’t handle a couple of little kids? Probably can’t take them to the Diogenes Club, but otherwise…”

“Mrs Hudson…” Mycroft began in a near hiss.

“Is not a babysitter, last I checked. And is not equipped to protect them if they’re discovered. They can’t stay here indefinitely. But between your resources and your sedentary habits, they’d be secure with you until we figure out the trafficking ring.”

With one of his condescending smiles, Mycroft turned his attention to John. “And how exactly has that been going, Doctor Watson? Well enough you can go out drinking at 2 in the afternoon, I see.”

As Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, John leaned forward both his body and head to smile menacingly. “Yeah, and how  _ is _ that diet going, Mycroft?”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a little snort as Mycroft’s face curdled distinctly.

Mads lost all faux composure, rolling backwards on the couch as she roared with laughter. “Ha! He said you’re fat!”

“Sir.” Andrea piped up, and John looked over at the Bugul-noz. It waved at him.

Mycroft stood, brushing himself off with a dignified air. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our little chat short, brother dear.” He sneered. 

The twins got up, Strel stretching and closing the laptop, her sister jumping from the couch to the floor in an animated fashion.

“Have fun, Mycroft.” John said as the girls went after Andrea down the stairs. Then- “Oi!” John realized Strel hadn't put his computer down. He got up to go after her. “You can’t just-”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Mycroft huffed as he approached the landing, cutting into John’s path. 

“Yeah, I’ll bill you.” John huffed back, thinking about the most expensive laptop he’d seen lately. He closed the door after the elder Holmes and turned to look at Sherlock. Still in his pajamas. “You must be happy.” He quipped, going into the kitchen to make tea.

“Hm.”

“You complained about her all the time. Now I guess you see you were lucky it wasn’t the other one.”

“Indeed. And how is Stamford?”

John rolled his eyes, though Sherlock couldn’t see. “Fine, thanks.” He put on the kettle.

“Was your appointment that disappointing?”

Leaning back against the counter and putting his hands on the edge, John looked out on his flatmate, who had switched back to sitting atop his own leather chair. “You tell me.”

Sherlock cocked his head a bit and blinked slowly, like a cat. “I’m not sure what you expected. You’re a doctor. You must have realized the extent of the damage you’re doing to yourself.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t say anything. You’ve got no stance to comment.”

“I am not in charge of you.”

“That’s an understatement.” John scoffed, though he knew that Sherlock and himself both knew it was the opposite.

“You decide what’s important. You deal with the consequences, positive and negative.”

“Don’t pretend my choices don’t affect you, and directly. What would you do if I said I wasn’t going to Canada on Monday? That I was going to listen to my physiotherapist for once?”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “I’d cancel your ticket.”

“No, see, you don’t get to do that. You’re already doing these cases because of me. How is it you’d go by yourself, hm? You can’t find them without a Shifter, Sherlock.”

After a moment of silence, broken by the kettle boiling and John pouring two cups, Sherlock put his feet down and slid into the seat. 

“What did you talk to Mike about?”

John came in, irritation bubbling beneath the surface but not yet boiling over, and handed Sherlock his mug. “Why?”

“You go see Mike at the pub when you need to talk about things. And you’re not just upset about your leg. You’re upset about the things you shouted at me next to the lighthouse. Usually, though, after you talk to Mike you go back to normal. And usually you go at a more socially acceptable hour. So… what did you talk to Mike about?”

John sat down and sipped at his tea, though it was still much too hot. He put out his burnt tongue with a huff as Sherlock watched with his raptorial gaze. After a few moment, John realized Sherlock wasn’t going to speak first.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself. This was going to be difficult. To have an honest conversation. “I have about a million strands of thought hovering around me, starting at Baskerville and only gaining momentum since I got back. Scratching at me. Anxieties I’d either left behind after moving in, or new ones I’ve found since I got back.” John took a moment to gather his thoughts, and Sherlock waited without moving. “I don’t know what to do. I’m… off.”

Watching the clenched teeth, the recurrent tremor, the white-knuckled grip on his cane… Sherlock determined John wouldn’t be able to force out anything more. He decided against moving closer, though something tugged him.

“John.”

He didn’t look up.

Unperturbed, Sherlock leaned forwards a bit and lowered his tone an octave. “John.”

A tingle went up his spine at the reverb, and John took a deep breath, raising his head.

Sherlock looked him over again before locking eyes, face serious and neutral. “You’re wrong. You know what to do, you always know. It’s just clouded by a surge of information and the release of catecholamines and neuropeptide s in your amygdala. You may not be able to rewrite this reaction, but you can learn how to handle it. You have before, as you’ve said, when you moved in here. It’s obvious you expected your unchanged paradigm upon your return and when that proved impossible you fell back into the mindset familiar to you before meeting me. Your familiar injury exacerbated this and contributes to it. Your isolating circumstances, in your mind, mimic the tiny flat you stayed in when you were invalided. It’s really very simple when you think about it.” Sherlock leaned back and crossed his legs. “You just need to revisit the formula that solved this problem before and change some of the variables.”

Before John could sort through the myriad of reactions he had to that (relief, disbelief, cynicism, prideful rejection, pondering) there was a series of banging noises from the first floor, followed by a shout.

Both men stood, Sherlock went to his desk and pulled out John’s gun to toss over. John checked the magazine and nodded. Both went to the stairway and looked down.

“Johnny!” A slurred female voice carried up the stairs.

John let out a heavy sigh, cursed under his breath, and stowed his gun. He took up his cane instead and made his way down to where Harry had opened the front door and left it that way, knocked over the umbrella stand, and ended up leaned heavily on the bottom of the railing.

“Harry…” John looked up to where Sherlock stood on the landing. “Come help me get her to Mrs Hudson’s kitchen.”

\---

Once they’d sat Harry down at the table with a plastic cup of water, which her head lay next to, John and Sherlock stood in the doorway and discussed what to do as she slurred angrily at them.

“Whyzzit you can drink in th’ middle of th’ day an’ I can’t?”

“A laundry list of reasons, Harry, do you really want me to go over them?”

“He’s not an alcoholic, for starters…”

“Not helpful, Sherlock.”

“I’m not an alcoholic…”

“By textbook standards-”

“Sherlock! Cut it out.”

John massaged his temples and looked up at his flatmate. “Mike must’ve told her the address.”

“Naw, it was Bill.”

“Not important how you got it, Harry. Why- nevermind. Drink the water.”

“Yessir, doctor soldier sir.”

John turned his back and crossed his arms, speaking more quietly to Sherlock. “What, in your genius opinion, should we do about this?”

“Standard response would be to have Lestrade pick her up.”

“Yeah since when do you go by police guidelines?”

“Call Clara to pick her up.”

“No…” John sighed and cast a glance back at his inebriated sibling. “I have no idea what state their relationship is in. I can’t do that.”

“You’re not…” Sherlock scrunched his face. “You are. You’re considering taking care of her here. No.”

“Sherlock…” John’s tone warned.

“No, John, we just got rid of the last interloper not even an hour ago.” Sherlock’s face was dark and serious. “You accuse me of wanting to be here, not wherever else we go to find the people sold alongside you, and you’re not wrong. But I can handle it if, when we do come home, it’s actually our home.”

“Oooo,” Harry sneered, attracting the frustrated looks of both men. “Having a domestic? God, John, between the drinking and this, we’re more alike than I thought!”

“I want her gone.” Sherlock hissed, wanting furiously to walk away but controlling himself because no, John had a problem and this one he could fix. So as his flatmate pushed his hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, Sherlock went over to Mrs Hudson’s cupboards and rustled around to find the things he needed.

John watched silently, not wanting to even ask, before going over and sitting at the table across from his sister. “Why are you sloshed, Harry?” From her last comment, she was at least getting her speaking ability under control again.

“Nothing better to do…” She mumbled, finally drinking some water when John pushed it at her.

“Harry.”

“Got sacked.”

John sighed sadly. “From Alliance and Leiscester? What happened?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Maybe now you can become a mechanic. You’ve talked about it enough.”

“Shut your face, John, it was your fault to start off.”

Knowing he’d regret it, John put his hands on the table and asked, “How’s that?”

“I was distracted, I missed work… because I was worrying about  _ you _ . You went off and got kidnapped, a grown ass adult with fucking military training what fucking good deal it ever do you if you get yourself  _ kidnapped  _ John like a  _ primary kid _ ?! And then you got yourself shot, on top of it. You won’t talk to me. I’m sick with worry, I gotta tell the folks you’re fine and make it sound good, that everything is just fine. Bloody hell, John!”

Not remotely surprised, John sat back. “You done?”

“I should expect so.” Sherlock answered coldly, putting down a measuring cup with something goopy and a sort of yellow brown in it. What John was fairly confident was an egg yolk sat at the top of it. “Take off your socks.”

“The fuck are you to tell me anything?” Harry snorted, poking at Sherlock’s chest. Though he was too far away for her to actually succeed. 

“You’ll do as I say or I’ll call the police to come haul you off. You can sober up now and go home, or you can sleep it off for a few hours in a cell and be picked up. I honestly do not care which.”

Harry glared, but the threat seemed to take. She looked at John as if he’d supersede it. He just kept her stare with one of his own, full of disapproval. “Fine. Fuck.” She bent down to untie her shoes.

John side-eyed Sherlock, but he was watching his sister with his chin raised, looking derisive. 

“There.” She threw her white crew socks at Sherlock, who caught them. “Happy?”

He didn’t react. “Drink this.” He pushed the measuring cup at her and took her socks to the sink. John might have thought this was a very odd dream if his dreams were ever odd and not just terrifying.

Harry grimaced but downed the odd liquid in one go. John equated it to practice. Harry smacked her lips, eyes going wide, and shook her head. “Hoof. That was… distinct.”

“Hm.” Sherlock handed back the socks, now damp.

“They’re bloody freezing.”

“Very astute. Put them on.”

Harry stuck her tongue out at him but did as she was told.

“Come.” He beckoned, not waiting to see if she would follow. John sighed and helped her up. She was a lot more stable than when they’d brought her in.

Sherlock was waiting at the base of the stairs, and took her from John to get her up them and onto the sofa. “Not a word.” He warned, and she glared but turned over and went still.

John watched from the doorway, leaning on the frame. “What the hell was all that?” He asked when Sherlock joined him in looking at the lump on the couch with frustration.

“Science. Kick her out when she wakes up, she’ll be fine. Should be…” Sherlock checked his watch, “about two hours.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you… Sherlock, where are you going?” John asked as his detective reached past him to get his coat.

“Out.”

John half-lidded his eyes. “Where?”

“Running an errand. Kick her out, two hours. Should be simple enough.” He swept the coat on and started swiftly down the stairs.

“Well, when will you be back?” John called after him.

“At least three hours.”

“Of course…” John sighed, turning to look again at his sister. “Maybe I  _ should  _ try Clara. See how she is.”

With another huff, John took his laptop over to his chair and sat down.

\---

Clara, as it turned out, was seeing Harry again, on a trial basis. She handled John’s call much better than he’d expected. She always was very easy to talk to, and she said despite today's lapse, Harry had been doing well with sobriety. 

“You’ve always been her pressure point, no matter where either of you are in life she seems to feel responsible for you.” She’d told him in a light tone.

“Yeah, so she’s done since we were kids.”

She agreed to come fetch her, thanked John, and urged him to visit them soon.

“You know, now that you’ve suggested it, she’ll never become a mechanic. Out of spite.”

John laughed. “Well she should know better than to think I’m the sort to say ‘I told you so’.”

“Actually I think she knows better than to think you’re  _ not _ that sort.”

So by the time Sherlock returned (four hours later), John was in their empty flat on his laptop, and things, for the evening, seemed back to normal. Though Sherlock would not say where he’d gone.

\---

“The last one, then.” John confirmed as he poured milk into his cereal Monday morning.

“According to Mycroft, yes.” Sherlock had his head behind the paper, toast and tea getting cold beside him.

“Still Canada. They found the one here in London.”

“Yes. Turns out ‘Colonel’ is actually a Colonel, in the British Navy even. Pyrean ibex Shift. Though I suppose we should be thankful my brother headed that one, apparently it was a political nightmare.” Sherlock flipped the paper to the second page and held it up; a story about a missing Naval officer was prominent, taking up the whole page (minus the ads).

“Still, they left the coldest places to us. Iceland, Canada…” John crunched into his nosh with a sigh.

“Good point is, Bluebell is the only one missing now. So she’ll be who we meet in Canada.” Sherlock folded his paper back and continued to read it.

“Hm.” John swallowed. “Must've found Faas, then. Good. Maybe his mother won’t come back now.” He frowned and took another spoonful.

“Of course by now Moriarty is also on to us. That we’re finding the Shifters sold at your auction.” Sherlock turned the page and picked up his teacup.

“Must’ve known before now, though. Why hasn’t he been involved? As far as I can tell, these cases have been entirely up to the buyers to sort out.”

Sherlock finished off his cup in two gulps and checked his watch. “Don’t know. We’ll need to be careful, I’m bringing your gun.”

John gave his flatmate a sardonic look and finished his mouthful. “You’re intending to bring an unlicensed, illegal military issue handgun from England, one of the countries known for strict gun control… into Canada, another one of those countries, which is also next to the US, a country currently paranoid as all hell about weapons on planes and also of foreigners…”

Sherlock didn’t look up, finally starting on his toast. “Yes.”

“How?”

Sherlock chewed and smiled.

\---

A long flight overseas had John seriously considering his physiotherapists objection to working. After nine hours in a cramped seat (they were absolutely flying back first class, bugger all else), a four hour layover, and another hour in a smaller plane, his leg was beyond sore. It was sending constant jolts of sharp pain into his muscles that extended their reach every time, until his stomach to his knee was pulsing with pain.

And there was more bad news.

As he looked over the map marker they were starting from, it was across a not unsubstantial part of Lake Superior from the airport they’d end up at, and in the midst of a provincial park. A provincial park known for it’s mountain. Getting close enough to follow the sylph was going to be very, very difficult.

“I’m gonna need a bloody wheelchair by the end of this…” John huffed, the strain making him need to stop and lean against the wall inside Thunder Bay International Airport.

Sherlock, pulling their wheeled suitcase (John insisted they bring a bigger one this time), stood nearby. John didn’t consider it was to keep people from staring at him while he recovered. He shifted his eyes over to John, not moving anything else. “Very possibly.”

John leaned his cane beside him and rubbed his muscles to soothe them back to working order. “Cheers. I feel much better now.”

“Given the state you’re in now, what we’re likely to have to do tomorrow, and your lack of restraint, it isn’t unlikely the damage will be severe and lasting.”

“We need to find Bluebell. Then I can take a break and do physio.”

“That’s dangerously ignorant, especially for a doctor.”

“Well what do you suggest I do, Sherlock? You can’t go by yourself.”

“I’m not saying that. You know what exercises you need to do. The place we’re staying is quiet and I’ll need to look into the trails we might need to take. Do research.”

“You’re saying… I should take time now.”

“Yes. At least until you’re in good enough shape to walk on your own.”

“Without…” John looked at his cane. His leg was starting to loosen up, but the ache was still a constant pressure. “That could take weeks, Sherlock.”

Cocking his head and turning to fully face John, Sherlock frowned. “And if you try to climb a mountain when a plane ride incapacitates you, we’d need to call a rescue helicopter to just get  _ you _ down, forget Bluebell.”

Knowing he didn’t have any argument, John grimaced and concentrated on his leg. It was so frustrating. This was scores less serious than the shot that took him out of the army, and it seemed like it was causing a lot more grief. Of course… he’d actually been able to dedicate months to healing and rehabilitation. Now he felt like even if he needed to take care of himself, it was selfish.

But wasn’t even going after the others selfish? Because all he could think of that drove him to push and push was how he’d felt in the zoo, in the chains backstage, fighting naked and confused like an animal. Thinking how badly he wanted someone to come for him, if he couldn’t get out himself. How helpless and scared and exposed he’d been.

“John.”

Shaking out of his inner reverie, John looked up as Sherlock bent forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, okay.”

Frowning, Sherlock squeezed his hand and let go. “Let’s go for a walk. Find somewhere to eat.”

John was able to stand now, if he leaned heavily on using his cane. “We’re not checking in first?”

“We’re staying at Eldorado Beach, right on the lake. It’s another half hour by cab. I doubt you’d want to be stuck in a seat again and jostled around just now.”

Sighing with gratitude, John stood straight and nodded for Sherlock to lead the way.

\---

Even though it was only just spring, which in Canada (even this far south) meant it was still below freezing, Sherlock managed to talk a nearby restaurant (Naxos) into letting them sit on the patio. It gave them relative privacy, lots of room for John to stretch out or get up as much or as little as he needed, and the cold helped with the throbbing pain.

Not wanting to risk trying whatever passed for tea across the pond, they instead ordered hot chocolate. It was rich, covered in whipped cream, and quite good.

“So. Research.” John began, rubbing snow on his leg and relishing the numbing effect. It was extremely preferable to taking painkillers, which made him loopy.

“Yes. And the very real possibility of Moriarty being here. He had Bluebell last we saw him. It’s unlikely he sold her after she began to work with us.”

“Have you… I’m sure you have, but… there is also the possibility…”

“She’s dead, yes. She wasn’t when we were in Iceland, the sylph would know and tell us. It was arranged earlier. It also seems unlikely she’s been dumped in the Canadian wilderness. What would be the point?”

“Well what’s the point in her being here at all? Are we optimistic enough to think she escaped from somewhere nearby and is hiding out here? A rabbit would blend in out here, it would be nearly impossible to find her without our tracking or other help.”

Sherlock looked up as their food was delivered. He smiled at the waiter but immediately dropped the civility when he turned to leave, sniffing suspiciously at his moussaka. “If she got out, when Moriarty had her personally, it was on purpose. We need to be very careful. That’s exactly why we should take our time preparing. Besides the fact the trails in the park are closed right now because of the freezing rain from last week.”

“Perfect. Hiking up a mountain on ice.” John found himself ravenous after being unable to eat on the plane, tucked into his lamb chops.

“Actually it could be seen as fortuitous, seeing as there won’t be anyone else out there. No collateral damage. Or inane distractions.” Sherlock tipped his chin down to hide his grin at John’s gusto. (He could easily have kept it off his face to begin with.) He started eating as well, though much slower. He didn’t intend to take much in, they were still technically on a case. “Did you tell your doctor you were leaving the country?”

“No, but I did call the office to cancel my appointments for the time being. And Clara as well. I should have been doing that to start, she’s less… loud. And Harry takes news a lot better from her than me.”

“Speaking of loud…” Sherlock smirked as he pulled out his phone and tapped it a couple of times before handing it over. On the screen was a candid shot of Mycroft, back turned as he stood in front of his desk, Mads attached to his leg.

“My god…” John swallowed and gaped. “How did you get this?” He looked up in amazement.

“I think Basil is taken with you, Andrea sent me a couple of shots like this. I think the threat of deportation is the only thing that keeps her from snapchatting them.”

John laughed from his belly, looking again at the photo. The girl was delightedly looking up at him, and on second glance her sister was sat behind the desk on Mycroft’s chair. You could only just make out the tops of her eyes over the expensive wood and files and pens.

“Uncle Mycroft. Bet he never thought that would happen.” John felt much lighter.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock took his phone back and pushed away his plate, though he’d barely touched it. “It wouldn’t be impossible otherwise.”

John cocked his head, unsure whether he should laugh or take it seriously. He’s hurt Sherlock before by brushing off his more ‘average’ behaviors and comments, so he decided not to risk it. “How so? You couldn’t stand Strel, and she’s probably the best behaved child I’ve ever seen. Certainly the quietest, by far.”

Sherlock casually raised his brows, taking on his 'mysterious' persona. “Wasn’t that terrible. As you’d mentioned, I do better with children anyway. There are… advantages.” He shrugged in a not at all convincing way. “With the right set of variables, it’s an interesting theory.”

John sat in silence as Sherlock tapped on his phone (his laptop was packed and likely he couldn’t be arsed to fetch it), thinking and eating. He didn’t taste another bite.

\---

As Sherlock had predicted, the drive out was a lot easier on John after taking some time to recover from the plane, and it made him seriously consider the suggestion to do his physio while Sherlock did other things, before they went after Bluebell.  He could always video chat with his doctor, he figured she wouldn’t mind overly.

The place they’d booked into was privately run, and right on the lake as promised. The smell was strongly natural in the cold breeze off the freshwater, and it made John itchy to run on four paws. He pushed his foot in a snowbank to fill his shoe with snow at the inclination and the shock took it away. Mostly.

Sherlock was still hauling the luggage, which John had a harder time equating with his detective’s impatience than he usually did. He was talking to a soft-looking woman who couldn’t be more than ten years their senior as John hung back and got his sock wet. She waved him over with a smile that reminded him of Mrs Hudson. That was both helpful and not, since it made him homesick and they hadn’t been gone even a day yet.

John walked over slowly, tickled that Sherlock seemed to be having an actual discussion with her. From what he could tell, it was sincere even.

“John.” Sherlock turned, whipping his coat around with his nose in the air. John smirked, knowing exactly what that meant. What a peacock. “ _ Some _ people do appreciate  _ my _ blog.”

The woman laughed airily. “Well, Mr Holmes-”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Of course. Sherlock. When I saw the name on the reservation, I knew it sounded familiar. It’s not a common name, after all. I’ve read your website over several times. I have a print out next to the deck chair.” She gave him an encouraging pat on the arm and looked at John, offering a hand. “Doctor Watson, I presume? I’m Maria Harding, please call me Maria. Welcome to Canada.”

John shook her steadily gripping hand and nodded. “Yeah. John is fine, too.” He moved his head in Sherlock’s direction. “You should be careful about encouraging him. He’ll be preening for weeks now.”

“Your blog is nice, too, dear.” She chuckled, ushering them into the large wood cabin-style building. “Come on, I’m sure it’s a lot colder now than you’re used to. It’ll be nice when the sun comes up, though. I’ll show you to your room and you can get settled.”

\---

“-found someone who can get through all 243 types of tobacco ash means you can stop being insulted that I couldn’t?” John swung open their room and took a breath of relief. It was large yet cozy and they had a queen bed. He put aside his cane with some difficulty and began peeling off his layers.

“Not just ‘get though’, John. _Appreciate_. I’m beginning to consider staying a few weeks more beneficial already.” Sherlock stood behind John, who thought it was him being a braggart, but was actually in case John’s leg failed him. “I’ll have to do some shopping.”

John sighed, coats finally off, and carefully sat on the bench that was also the coat rack to get his shoes. Sherlock stooped before he could lean forward. “Sherlock, I’m not-”

“Shush.” He noticed the snow in the right shoe with a frown. “Don’t whine, I’m helping.”

John huffed but leaned back. “Shopping for what, exactly? You won’t do the shopping at home to keep us from starving.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” Sherlock ignored the scoff that followed, “Equipment. I’ll need to experiment, this environment is entirely different, of course, and a few of my more useful analyses from England won’t translate. I have a feeling I’ll need the data.”

“You’re not serious. This isn’t our flat, you can’t destroy it. You were singing it’s praises a minute ago.”

“Hm. Correction; I was commenting on our host, not the accommodations.” He put John’s shoes aside, upside down over the vent to warm and dry them, and stood to get out of his own warm clothes. 

“Right.” John snarked, staying where he was for a bit.

“Anyway, I will not be destroying anything, none of the things I plan to do are volatile.”

“No blow torches.” John warned, getting Sherlock’s long coat hung up overtop of him in response.

“Yes, John, fire bad.” Sherlock smirked and walked further into their room, looking it over as he went.

\---

“No, the snow’s melted now, mostly. But that just makes more ice. Nice to have sun, though.” John spoke over the portable house phone to Mrs Hudson. He’d taken to calling her on Friday afternoons while sitting out on the patio with a thick blanket over his legs and a hot water bottle on his gunshot. They’d been there, somehow, for three weeks. _Somehow_ Sherlock wasn’t bored, though he was often away, and _somehow_ John was kept busy enough with reading more on folklore (only books Sherlock had been recommended by Bluebell), physio, and his daily routine that he didn’t really notice the time passing as he feared he would. Maybe it was the environment, maybe it was Maria and her equally charming husband Oliver making the cabin feel like home, maybe it was Sherlock’s eccentricities melding well with the Canadians in a surprising turn… In any case, John was getting stronger.

“It’s intolerably boring here without you boys. Though Mr Holmes comes sometimes with the girls now, when his lady is out of town I think. It wasn’t so bad before, with so much of Sherlock’s mess to occupy me…”

John smiled, reminded of his discovery a week in of why Sherlock took to putting cream out in a little dish.

 

_ “Brownies?” _

_ “Silkies, brownies, urisks… house spirits. Best keep them in a good mood.” _

_ “Okay… what are they?” _

_ Sherlock sighed, not putting down his paper. “Basically… the fae version of Mrs Hudson. They help take care of things when you can’t see them, but if you insult them, they can be hellish.” _

 

“Yeah, I don’t think we’ll be here much longer.”

“John, you say that every week.” She huffed affectionately.

“I know. But Sherlock is charting things and having me keep an eye out for… um, my contact here. We’ll find her, and they we can come home.”

There was a whistle in the background. “That’s the kettle, just a moment.”

“I should let you go, actually. I need to get more hot water for my leg.”

“Let me know if you need some of my soothers when you get back.”

“No, no… go get your kettle, I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Take care of each other out there, John. Give Sherlock my love.”

“I will. Ta.”

John beeped off the phone and placed it down beside himself, watching the lake for a bit. He’d seen the sylph a handful of times since they’d arrived, but across the water. He wasn’t sure how he knew it was her from so far off, but… he knew. It always made him want to run off and find her, find Bluebell. But every time, somehow, Maria had shown up with a cup of cocoa and a question that distracted him long enough for him to need to go to bed. He often see Neighbors around her; on her shoulder, in her kitchen… but he saw nothing that indicated she could see them. He sort of suspected her husband could, but then he didn’t see or talk to him nearly as much as his wife.

The only other interesting thing to happen since they’d arrived- other than John accidentally stepping on Sherlock when getting up one morning to find him sleeping where he’d been working, on the floor next to the bed. He’d backed himself into that position by laying out way too many papers across the floor in order to map something out about the Sleeping Giant trails… The only thing other than that John could remark upon… -was an incident involving his doctor. 

She’d agreed to video chat, happy John was actually working with her no matter where he was. One day during an appointment, when John was in his pants for her physical examination (she’d made Sherlock go buy a high quality webcam for that reason), Sherlock had burst in with some garbage he thought was important (involving ink, of all things). He left the damn door open long enough to draw a small audience of visitors and eventually Maria, who came to shoo them off. Other than being mortified, John’s display before a woman on camera had quelled the rumors about him and Sherlock. People mostly stopped talking about his relationship status at all, seemed him being with a woman was too bland to gossip about. This dug under John’s skin ever since, and he’d spent two days sulking, on top of two hours in a somewhat loud lecture about boundaries with Sherlock.

“It  _ was _ important, John.” His detective had mumbled. “I discovered the variable used in the spell ink, and why it’s needed. It  _ affects  _ you, you still don’t know what that spell circle at the auction house did to you.”

It didn’t matter. He’d put it aside. Apparently he was the only person upset, so he just had to deal with it.

The tapping of shoes announced his detective before he came around the corner and flopped backwards into the chair beside John’s. “I spoke with Doctor Cartwright regarding your recovery's progress. And the rest of the park trails, the difficult ones we need, will be open to the public again in three days.”

“Yeah?” John sat forward and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

Sitting up with a grin, Sherlock threaded together his leather-clad fingers. “So we go tomorrow. Early.”

“About bloody time.”

\---

With his cane, John made good time on the trails. He’d built up a lot of strength, but he’d also done a lot of damage before that. So when they came around the point where John had seen the sylph, along the shore, he was huffing and grateful for the cool breeze even as it bit at his face.

He took a moment to sit on a large rock as Sherlock looked around, and let his head fall back. The cliff above them was incredibly high, a nearly straight drop from the mountain. It was close enough to the shore that John figured if you were to look down, you’d only see water. Apparently the ridge was called ‘Top of the Giant’. As beautiful as the view must be, John hoped they wouldn’t need to climb that high.

Taking a swig from his canteen, John followed the movement of the sylph as she approached. “It’s been some time. Greetings.”

_ “Heira. This is the last part of our contract.” She giggled, “Please feel free to ask for my help again.” _

“I appreciate that, though I hope I’m not put in a situation where I have to.”

_ “It took you so very long to come across the water, puppy.” _

“Yeah… I got hurt and then I made it worse. I needed to heal.”

_ “Oh…” She said sadly, tsking. “Heira if you’d only come home with us, you would heal so quickly there. No painful days upon painful days.” _

“I’ll politely decline.”

“Ask her not to make you run this time.” Sherlock said, coming back around. “The fog is settling in, even if you were fully healed we couldn’t move through the woods at a run.”

“Uh.”

_ “I won’t hurt you, of course, Heira. But none of us like your friend. He’s going to cause you so much more pain.” _

“Noted.” John capped his canteen and stood, stretching. “Let’s go.”

The little fae huffed but started out at a slow, rhythmic pace, and began to hum. 

“How is the last marked Shifter?”

_ “Very spunky.” _

“Good. She’s ok.” John relayed to Sherlock. The sylph looked back at him discerningly and hummed louder.

\---

Most of the icy paths, in reality, were the ones closer to the bottom. Once they got past those and began to climb, the ground was easy enough to get grip on. That was lucky, since the fog was becoming a problem. The higher they got, the less they could see around them. John was tiring fast, and when they reached a sort of landing, he called ahead to stop the sylph.

“Let’s take a break for a tick.” He huffed, leaning back on a tree and sliding down. “Alright, Sherlock?”

Silence answered.

John looked up, brows clenching. The path in front and behind was clear, and the fog had become like walls of light grey that blocked off the woods on either side. John felt ice crawling on his skin. “Sherlock?” He stood quickly, looking around. “If this is you having a laugh, I swear…”

_ “He’s in another part of the maze, Heira.” _

“He’s… what? Since when?”

_ “This is not a natural fog, yonef. It is a summoned maze.” _

“Summoned by who?” John asked, frowning deeply.

_ Shaking her finger, the sylph tsked. “No, that was not in the contract. If you want information, you must give something in return.” _

John thinned his lips. He looked forward. “We still need to go this way?”

_ “I will lead you through the maze to your marker, as agreed. Take care in leaving, if you can leave. Passing the barriers is unwise. Speaking loudly as well, when you see the shadow of the Wihtiko, will allow the creature to find you.” _

“The… dammit.” Even after going through a handful of Bluebell's books, John didn't recognize what a 'Wihtiko' was. He cursed under his breath and looked around again. “Sherlock!” He yelled, to no avail.

_ “Come, Heira. Let us finish this journey.” _

John got a very heavy feeling in the pit of his gut. Things had turned fantastical very quickly. Finding Bluebell was one thing… how the hell was he going to find Sherlock?

\---

It seemed like hours, trudging uphill in the trails. They veered off the pathways at times, into the woods. The fog walls were straight up until they melded into the cloudy sky, and John felt trapped even though he was in the expansive outdoors. Sometimes they would reach a place with several openings, and John would hesitate. But the sylph seemed unperturbed as she led him through, and he felt like she was protecting him. That would only get him as far as the marker, though. 

_ “Through there.” She said finally, just as John had finished off his canteen. She pointed at a side way into the maze. “This is where we part.” She flew down and kissed his head. “Do not bring the wrath of the Wihtiko upon you, Heira, for unless you join the Seelie, you are alone here.” _

John nodded, keeping quiet as he watched her disappear into the maze. It seemed even she was sticking to the paths, not going into the fog. He turned and walked the way she’d indicated, into a large opening. He could see dark scratches in the ground in this clearing; a circle. This must be where the maze had been summoned… He stepped carefully around it.

“Bluebell…” He called out quietly, looking around for any twitch of movement. He had his hand on his gun, fully alert, and gripped his cane in the other hand more for reassurance than stability. “Bluebell…”

He moved to the other side of the area, and saw the faint light of glowing green through the next passage and huffed in relief. “Bluebell, are you alright?”

As he turned the corner, looking downwards, he nearly ran into something much larger and more solid than the Shifter he’d been looking for.

He raised his chin to look up at the figure before him in alarm. 

Standing in the path, holding a glowing green lantern, was the blond-haired green-eyed assassin; Sebastian Moran.

“Hullo, Johnny. Miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part will be up within a week. It will be shorter, thank god. There will be twenty chapters (parts 1-5 count as one chapter), and then I have ideas for a continuation.
> 
> Please let me know if you'd read a continuation.
> 
> If so, I will begin plotting it more seriously. Also, I should say, this fic will not get into NSFW territory, but the continuation will, if that helps :P
> 
> Oh and if anyone was curious, Sherlock got John's gun on the plane with Air Marshall credentials. It actually helped that it was a military issue handgun.


	20. A Drama In Four Acts: Part 5, Meles meles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The music swells as the climax is delivered.
> 
> AKA every horror movie ever involving low lying clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted Sunday. It's 98% ready, but I figured I'd space it out a little.

John took a hard step back, cognizant not to go into the fog, and drew his gun. Moran was ready for him, matching his movements and hitting John’s hand _hard_ , and the pistol went flying through the maze wall. Moran’s other hand grabbed John’s collar and held him, lifting him so John’s feet merely ghosted over the ground. John gripped Moran’s arm for balance.

“I told you, one bullet is enough.”

John struck out with the cane instead, and Moran swung his whole body, causing him to miss. He slammed John down hard on the cold ground and they grappled for control of limbs. John was exhausted from the hike and just had the breath knocked out of him, so it didn’t take long for Moran to pin him. The hold reminded him of his military training.

John stopped struggling, huffing his misted breaths in Moran’s face.

“That’s good. We got lucky, it seems your detective got lost before we even saw you. Don’t bank on him finding you, without the Sight it’s only a matter of time before he gets eaten.”

“Where the fuck is Bluebell?”

“The rabbit? That’s what you call her? I call her Subject 0923-D, but I guess yours is more poetic.” He flipped John over and clasped his arms in thick manacles, the familiar sting of silver on his flesh regardless of the material between him and it. Then he hoisted him to his feet. “She’s here, obviously, or you wouldn’t be. Took you ages. C’mon, the boss isn’t as patient as he seems to think.”

\---

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to determine the maze changed when he wasn’t looking. None of his mental mapping methods were working, and it was becoming very frustrating. That was the most irksome part of magic- it didn’t make any fucking sense.

He moved carefully and quietly. This maze was not likely to be here for it’s own sake. Whether it’s purpose was to separate him and John or something else entirely, he couldn’t be sure.

No, now he was past looking for direction and was now hoping to find a goddamn fairy ring, because John wouldn’t let him use the obvious solution to his handicap and become a Shifter.

Frustrated beyond belief after checking his watch to see it moving backwards and forwards, Sherlock took out the little pouch with the feather in it. He’d made sure Mycroft had returned it when they weren’t searching any longer, and it might be the only way he was going to find John.

 _‘May as well try…’_ He thought dully, taking it out into his palm. “Show me the way to John Watson.”

He let it drop.

It drifted down into the dirt and lay there, useless.

After a sigh of resignation, he picked it up. But he kept it in his hand. If he were very lucky, either John or Bluebell would smell it and track him down.

\---

Moran whistled jauntily as he led John through the maze, taking seemingly random turns.

John kept his eyes peeled, keenly aware of the sylphs warning.

“What’s the matter, Johnny? I’m not gonna hurt you.” Moran asked, looking down at John’s face as it ignored him, instead scanning the trees and the fog for shadows. “Oh, you’re worried about the Wendigo.”

John stopped walking, and Moran let him. Of course the sylph had used a different word, none of their words matched perfectly. And he knew exactly what a Wendigo was, the pictures were vivid in his mind now. His mouth felt dry.

“Aw, John. Don’t worry. You and I can see the signs, all we need to do is keep quiet if it’s nearby.” Moran pulled John close to him by the shoulder, like a cuddle. It made him cringe. Then they started walking again.

\---

Sitting cross-legged and thinking hard, Sherlock pulled up a memory that might help him do something other than wait. He stood and brushed off the dirt and leaves, starting now to pace.

“Name… name… What would he use…” He mumbled as he swiftly turned around. “No childhood pets. He’d be too reserved to use a family or friend... Favorite book… _The Lost World_ … Malone… McArdle.. No… Ah!” Sherlock stopped his pacing.

“Challenger.” He called in a low, melodic tone, as one might expect an owner to lovingly call a shy dog. “Challenger.”

He walked with care and purpose over the trails and through the bush where the fog permitted, calling.

\---

“Ah good. Here we are.” Moran announced, stopping to pick up John’s cane. Which they’d left near the circle. “Nice bit of work, this.” He bopped John on the nose with it and pulled him along into the clearing. It was exactly the same, except now Moriarty stood in the middle of the scratches in his suit, hands behind his back.

“Ah good. John Watson, the _Warrah._ Now we can start the show.”

Moran pushed John forward over the edge of the circle, though John felt nothing different. “No sign yet, sir.”

“Well it is what it is. Go find the last player, will you, dove?” Moriarty cooed.

Moran pushed John to his knees, making the doctor hiss, and went up to his boss. “If you say so.” He answered, pressing a kiss to Jim’s cheek. Then he was off back into the maze.

“Oh don’t worry. We’re open.” Jim answered John’s furrowed brow, rocking on his nice leather shoes. “Though I admit, sometimes jealousies flare up. He’s rather fond of you, you may have noticed. I suppose ordinary folk have their own tastes but I rather resent the implication. Sherlock, Sebby…” He ground into the dirt with his heel. “I sometimes recall when you were turning blue beneath me, when I think about it. Oh yeah, you’re probably wondering about this.” Withdrawing his hands, one of them grasping a shuddering white figure, Moriarty tossed Bluebell at John. Her fur was subtly green in the dim light.

John pulled at his manacles and started trying to move towards her.

“Uh uh uh, Johnny.” Moriarty tsked. John was bloody sick of getting tsked at today. “No playing around, not just yet.”

John stilled, using what he could see of Bluebell to assess her. He didn’t bother trying to talk to the consulting criminal, he saw no point.

The rabbit was shivering and malnourished, her fur thin in places.

“I had considered taking a paw. You know, for a keychain or something. I know what you’re thinking, ‘why not go to a gift shop?’ Well Johnny boy, you never can tell if things in those places are _authentic_ see. But really, a glow in the dark rabbit’s foot? A bit juvenile for my tastes.”

What John was actually thinking, though, was ‘ _When will this wanker shut his gob…_ ’

\---

His gambit finally paid off as Sherlock saw something on the trail. He rushed forward, making sure to be quiet about it, and picked up the Sig Sauer. As he checked it over (not fired, still fully loaded, slid to where it is, not dropped straight down) he silently thanked Bluebell for the tip about naming your weapons. Even someone like him, invoking something as powerful as a name, could tap into something deeper. He also thanked John for being so bloody predictable.

Hearing voices, he crept carefully towards the next turn with the gun ready, safety off. As he got closer, he recognized Jim Moriarty’s voice… and he was talking to John.

\---

Before several things happened in quick succession, the stage was set. First was a Neighbor John recognized as it approached him. It was the little bird-human sprite who had tugged on his finger in Ireland, he was certain it was the same one. They _felt_ the same. They put a finger to their lips with a giggle and John stopped watching them to go back to staring at Bluebell. Moriarty would not be able to see them.

 _“Oh dear puppy Heira, you’re locked up… Well, I can help you.”_ They flew over and sat on Bluebell’s back. The rabbit-shift settled, no longer shaking _. “See, I’m an Ariel. I embody the power of the wind.”_ John felt they were just bragging but couldn’t say anything _. “Flesh and bone, trees and stone, we wear it all down to dust.”_ John got the sense of what they were offering, barely raising his arms. They nodded. _“See, it’s hard to enchant a metal we Neighbors dislike, though silver seems to disagree with your kind it’s a favorite of mine. But I can’t give this to you for nothing, it will be hard work. A_ contract _. Hm. What seems fair…”_

John listened carefully to Moriarty’s rambling for an opportunity. It didn’t take long.

“-don’t you think, Johnny?”

“Yeah.” John said resolutely, looking the Irishman squarely in the face. “And my name is John Hamish Watson.” He waited just a moment, just the amount of time Moriarty was growing an unsettling smirk at his outburst, to give the offer time to settle. Then he tried to finish selling the deception. “Stop calling me ‘Johnny’ or ‘Johnny boy’ or ‘pet’. I’m a bloody human being.”

The look on his enemies face told him he’d pay for that.

“You are, are you?”

But John had stopped listening, watching the Ariel from his periphery. They nodded, smile growing large with pride and mirth. Then they flew behind John’s back.

And everything started.

“Should we see how it feels, when you’re actually unable to change?” Jim crowed as he pulled an emitter.

Bluebell’s eyes opened as slits.

Sherlock stepped out with the gun raised.

Moran raised his own pistol behind his master.

And the Ariel reduced the manacles to tarnished, useless scrap.

 

The emitter went off before Sherlock could threaten against it’s use, but John was already shifting. He shot forward, gathering Bluebell carefully in his jaws and shooting himself forward past Moran. Moran couldn’t take his attention off Sherlock, who he fired at, because that was the threat to his boss. Sherlock ducked back behind the wall of fog for cover. Moriarty turned casually and strolled past Moran, taking the cane as he went, and began twirling it as he followed John into the maze. Moran moved towards the wall with the intent to disarm and capture Sherlock.

\---

_John, Bluebell, and Jim_

 

Running. Running. Fear, but also freedom. John felt _right_ , he took corners easily while picking up speed. His paws drumming on the hard earth was satisfying; the grit and the cold waking his long-dormant senses. Bluebell’s soft fur in his mouth gave him the impression of a cub rather than a meal and filled his chest with purpose. Four legs instead of two made the pressure on his muscles much more even, though it was still there.

His ears twitched towards the sharp whistle as it traveled on the wind beyond the fog; Moriarty was coming. _‘Don’t let him get her.’_

But at his pace, the whistling became muffled and eventually stopped. John rounded another corner, almost feeling safe(ish), and there at the far end of this corridor was the dark man in the dark suit.

John turned around and backtracked, making sure to take a different route. It took him ten minutes to come across the villain again. He ran.

As John began to feel his leg straining, he stopped. He kept his ears up, but heard nothing, not even birds or water or wind. He placed the rabbit-shift down carefully and sat down to look at her, a little whine escaping his maw.

Bluebell rolled over and shedded as she rested on her knees, curled forward and hugging herself against the cold. “John…”

The gravity of desperation and need in her voice broke John’s heart, and he moved closer. She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, pushing her small, exposed body into his dense fur. If wolves could blush, John would be. But his awareness of being held by a naked woman was far outweighed by his concern for someone in trouble. He rested his jaw on her shoulder and waited.

“John… where is Sherlock?” Bluebell pushed back to look at him and he shook his head. “He… He’s in a lot of danger, he doesn’t know to stay quiet… You have to help me find him.”

John shook his head again, he knew the maze was keeping him near Moriarty. Seeming to understand, Bluebell pushed her raw hands to her dirty, smudged face. John looked at her properly now, as a doctor. She was underweight but not starved, her hair was a dull white and cropped, looking brittle and not at all like he knew it could be. She was filthy, eyes hollow and dark, and her skin was littered with punctures he knew came from syringes and IV needles. Most likely they started experimenting on her again. He nudged her shoulder with his nose and whined again.

“No.” She pushed his snout away. “No, we have to find Sherlock and get out of here.”

John blinked, nodded, and stood. Then he motioned up at her, then down at the ground.

Bluebell groaned but, understanding, curled back up and shifted. John picked her up again and started off running.

 

It didn’t take two minutes to get back to Moriarty, and behind him was the clearing with the circle, the buggered manacles, and John’s clothes. Putting on a burst of speed, John charged the smug bastard that put them here. He swerved at the last second, running into Moriarty’s legs and dropping Bluebell. She took off as best she could behind them as John growled and lunged at Moriarty’s knee with his teeth.

The criminal hopped backwards and drew his hand from his jacket, sprinkling something glittery in the air. “Brains make the difference, Johnny. Don’t worry, I won’t put you back on the block. Seb’s called dibs.”

John couldn’t help but inhale the dust, and much of it landed on his back where the scar peeked out of his fur. His eyes watered as he dropped and rolled in agony, yelping as the burning tang of metal coated his throat and made his shoulder feel like the bullet was tearing through it again.

Laughing almost as loud as John was screaming, Moriarty let the cane fall from his grip just enough to hold it like a golf club, the handle near the ground. He tapped his shoe with it and waggled into proper posture. “Forgive me, I don’t really golf. But I’ll make you the exception. That’s basically the title of your life, isn’t it. You’re the exception.” He did a couple of test swings and kicked John away when he rolled too close in his fit of pain. “Most Shifters are born to others with magic, most Shifters are _common_ mammals, most people on an army pension can’t live in London unless they’re homeless, most invalided soldiers self medicate with drink and or commit suicide, most people can’t handle both the army and medical school, most people aren’t worth _dirt_ to Sherlock Holmes… Except John Watson.” Sneering, Moriarty swung back the cane and brought it down hard, slicing through the air. It hit John in the ribs, and the delicious anticipation on Moriarty’s face was blown off it as the force through the wood resonated back at him and he flew backwards, rolling to a stop in the circle.

And as it touched him, every bit of the silver powder was flushed out of him, into the cane and back out in a little puddle of gleaming metal on the ground.

John was able to breath and drank the air into his parched lungs. When he’d managed to recover and stand, the lump in the clearing hadn’t moved. Not convinced nor ignorant enough to try to investigate the masterminded sadist, John carefully picked up his cane in his mouth and turned around. He felt confident the maze would let him move around now.

He wasn’t wrong, though in his haste he missed the towering shadow that passed over him.

\---

_Sherlock and Seb_

 

Taking the corner with practiced efficiency, Moran pointed his gun at the empty pathway. Sherlock had retreated, having done his job. He gave his partner the chance to get away. No matter, he wasn’t far.

“Sherlock.," Moran cooed as he moved through the maze,"I can call you Sherlock, can I not? It would feel oddly formal to say Mr Holmes, with how often Jim talks about you I feel familiar with you.” Moran’s ears pricked as shoes pushed over gravel and dirt. “Not just Jim, either. I got pretty close with John when we had him in the zoo. I was the one to catch him, after all.”

“Yes, and then you had him sold. Not too familiar.” The deep, disapproving voice rang back.

Moran grinned and worked his way, herding the detective through the maze. “That wasn’t my call. Jim may have a certain fondness for me, but I’m still an employee, and he isn’t above termination. Though I’d dare say more familiar than you. What’s taking you so long, Holmes? He can’t rightly leave you, not after you exposed him for what he hid away for so, so long. No one else will gain his trust again after that.”

Moran waited, walking carefully. He picked up a rock and threw it over into the fog to push the detective in the direction he wanted. “I watch the Baskerville tapes when I go away. Better than the in-flight movie. Does he know you were the one who set off the emitter?”

When Sherlock didn’t take the bait and change routes, Moran bolted forwards. He could hear the response as Sherlock was forced to make split second choices. Satisfied, Moran slowed again. “I’m just trying to understand, Sherl. Why you don’t just claim him. Is it all those comments, those rejections? What was it… he’s so fond of yelling it at people. Right. ‘I’m not gay!’” Moran mimicked John’s vehement objection. “What did he say at the pool? Odd time to flirt, I thought Jim was alone in thinking that situation was sexy. ‘People might talk’, god that’s gotta be hard to hear. Think it has to do with his disappointment of a sister? Maybe he just thinks all queers will ruin families, the way she did. Did he not talk to you about his feelings about it? Well. Someone Sight-less couldn’t understand him.” A chill went up Moran, flowing through the air. He had to get Sherlock to talk. “You’re better served shagging Jim. Wanna trade?”

“You seem to be under the impression you can upset with with your inane banter. What you’re doing is inconsequential.”

Moran smiled. Just a little more of a push. “You’re right, of course. Why don’t I make it ‘consequential’ then? We’re taking him when we leave here, and if you’re so cold and unaffected then I think I feel alright seducing him. He’s just my type, and I don’t have any of your pussy-footing hang ups about it. Besides the fact he's bloody useful in my line of work. Just give him to me, Sherlock, and you can go back to your normal life, unharmed.”

Moran smiled. He could smell the rage begin to heat the icy mountain, it was tantalizing bait.

“John isn’t an object, to be given or kept or sold.” Sherlock hissed. He’d stopped moving, stopped running. He was leveling his breathing, Moran could tell he was readying himself to shoot once they could see one another. Perfect. “And he’s more than capable of fighting off Jim Moriarty, especially since he doesn’t have his ruby ring, nor your gun, to back up his threats.” Sherlock scrambled on the dirt.

Moran held perfectly still as a towering creature came out of the mist, it’s front claws dragging from how crouched over it walked. It sniffed, turning it’s head to reveal the empty sockets on it’s gaunt face; pale white blue tinged skin stretched tight on it’s bones like leather over a drum. Not sensing Moran, it walked forward into the next wall towards Sherlock. He waited for the yells of pain and terror.

None came.

 

Behind the wall of mist, Sherlock was terrified… but it wasn’t because he’d been attacked.

He watched, heart thumping hard and pushing flight or flight into him at an alarming rate, as a humanoid figure lurched around his immediate area.

It was possibly once actually human, but it was certainly not any longer. At least ten feet tall (hard to tell when it hunched as it did), naked save the moist-looking moss and perhaps kelp hanging off it. It’s jaw hung slack and open, it’s teeth looked like nails had been hammered in by someone who didn’t overly care about placement or angles. It’s eyes and nose were gone, showing its skull as the taut skin came away from the holes left in places. It’s limbs were lanky; elongated bones leading up to nails broken off in a jagged line. It smelled of rotting flesh and oddly of embalming fluid as it got within inches of where Sherlock lay still, willing himself silent, with Bluebell on top of him holding her hands hard over his mouth. She was trembling with the effort.

She had leapt out of the fog at him suddenly, John’s tan jumper hanging loose off her, and with the advantage of both leverage and surprise managed to topple him.

Sherlock had no idea why he could see this horror, but the image of John’s fear and anger came to him then… if this was the sort of thing he’d seen, unable to react or talk to anyone about it, since he was a child…

And then, putting its head back and letting out a mournful, frustrated call that rang through the trees like an oboe in a minor key, the creature moved on, into the maze.

It took a moment of Bluebell carefully listening before she allowed herself to let out her breath and hang her head. Sherlock removed her hands from his face.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Sherlock spoke softly.

“Wendigo.” Bluebell answered, pushing off Sherlock and collapsing on the ground to catch her heart and push it back into place.

Sherlock sat up, checking the gun. “Why…”

“Because it’s not entirely fae. It used to be human. So anyone can see it.” Bluebell read his question before he made it and pushed the answer out. “Like John and me, and Shifters. And cats.”

“John…” Sherlock forced himself to stand, though his legs felt like water. “Where is John? You were with him.”

“Dunno. He sent me to find _you_. Because you can’t see the shadow that warns you the Wendigo is coming, just the creature itself.”

Sherlock cursed, turning around and listening for Moran, but the man seemed to be gone. “Do you know how to get out of this?”

“If I were capable I could cast a spell… but I’m barely keeping from passing out.” Bluebell mumbled, curling up so her legs were tucked into John’s sweater. “I’m gonna have wicked bad frostbite…”

Sherlock took deep, leveled breaths, trying to get his strength back. He shook his head, hard, and paced a bit to test his legs. “Alright. Alright. We need to find John and get off this mountain. Simple.” Convinced he’d stored away the memory of the Wendigo to freak out about later, and that he could use his body again as he wished, Sherlock went over and looked down at Bluebell. “Come on.”

Bluebell cracked her eyes to glare. “I used up everything I had to run here, on bare feet and nearly naked thanks very much, to save your prissy curl-haired life.” She shut her eyes again.

Wrankling a bit, Sherlock curled his frown. “Fine.” He picked her up. “Just this once.”

“It’s not like I‘m that heavy, don’t be a jerk about it.”

\---

The last second warning John got after missing other signs of the Wendigo (which after dealing with Moriarty had slipped from his mind) was the icy tingle in his gut. He managed to throw himself sideways and avoid the swiping hand as it came down on him. Panic hit him hard and he yelped, picking up his speed. He could hear it behind him, making ungodly noises that nearly sounded like speech. It was already bloody there, and there was no way he could hide in the maze, so John clenched his cane in his jaw and pushed into the fog in front of him. As soon as he hit the cold wet that left a bead of dew on most every part of his pelt, the creature bellowed and screeched. John wished desperately he could cover his ears. He jolted; a tree beside him that he hadn’t seen exploded into splinters as the creature struck out again.

Then his vision cleared and he could see actual sky, but his relief was cut short as he realized he’d come out of the maze onto the grand overlook; the Top of the Giant.

\---

A sharp yelp of pain made Sherlock whip his head in the direction it came from. “John…” He’d been wandering the maze aimlessly, getting more and more frustrated. “Bluebell, how did you find me?” He insisted as he turned and tried to take the path that would lead him towards the cry. He kept getting forced to backpedal.

“I followed the voice of that big badger, the walnut.” She mumbled, still barely there.

“Not helpful.”

Another yelp and a deep growl made Sherlock lose his patience, and he plowed right through the fog. It took him maybe ten steps to emerge, sliding to a stop at the edge of a cliff. He stepped back onto more solid ground and looked over to see the creature grabbing at his wolf. He didn’t seem to be injured anywhere, but he was backed up to the point of the overlook.

Sherlock started yelling to try and get the monster's attention, putting Bluebell down hastily so he could cup his hands around his mouth, though his voice echoed plenty.

Both John and the Wendigo looked over, and Sherlock drew the gun. If he could see it, he could use conventional weapons on it. He fired off five rounds in quick succession.

Three hit.

With a cry that made Sherlock clap his hands over his ears and Bluebell flinch at his feet, the Wendigo stumbled and foamed out its malformed jaw. Rampaging wildly. Black blood oozed from three holes in its chest and neck. Its sharp toenails cut scratches into the rock.

John dodged around it, concentrating hard to keep away from its erratic movements. Not quickly enough, as its hand caught him in the hind legs. John let out a yelp as he tumbled head over tail and skidded to the edge.

The Wendigo backed off the side and fell to the rocky shore below with a sickening crunch.

John pawed at the crags, trying to grab hold and avoid the same fate. Realizing he needed his hands to grab the ledge, John shedded. Or, he did exactly what he’d always done _to_ shed. Nothing happened, as if he were a child playing make believe he could be a werewolf… Letting out a yelp of confusion and fear, John’s paws slipped off the rock and he tumbled down, down.

 

“John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the finish line! Don't worry though, Chapter Nineteen will be disgustingly long. Not as long as what was technically Chapter Seventeen but still.
> 
> Planning out the second part of this, I have a solid plot (that was originally going to be part of this one) and some bouncing ideas, so that's happening.
> 
> I have a cookie for anyone who leaves a theory that turns out to be correct in the comments. There's one in this chapter that I hope comes through okay.


	21. An Evening with Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reprieve from the action, this chapter takes place in the middle of Chapter 13. 
> 
> Prepare for fluff, my friends!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I left a fairly literal cliffhanger and yes this doesn't resolve it at all. But I'm not the showrunners. I'm not going to give you bullshit, I'm going to actually explain things properly. Because I'm not a dickhead.
> 
> I'm not bitter.

“Carry out?”

“Carry out.”

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. They’d spent the afternoon talking about Shifters and fae and magic, and Sherlock had a better grasp on the technical side of things, as usual, though John’s perspective was seemingly useful as well. It had been exhausting, having the genius’ outwardly random train of thought tugging him along and asking directions halfway through a turn. Apparently Bluebell was either very thorough, or Sherlock had grilled her unrelentingly. There were also a couple dozen new (to the flat), dusty volumes full of tags where Sherlock had marked things piled next to the fireplace.

Reaching into all of this was very upsetting to John, who had long since left it all behind. He watched Sherlock, who paced the kitchen as he placed an order over the phone. He insisted on always doing it himself, even when he wasn’t eating. Unless he wasn’t paying attention, and then he just passive aggressively sulked around or pointed out some mistake, related or not, John had recently made.

“Based on the time and current weather patterns, the food will arrive in 23 minutes.” Sherlock announced, coming back into the room.

“Oh, I forgot with everything going on. Harry called while I was in hospital. She insists on coming to visit next week.”

Sherlock sat in his chair and took up his violin, though he didn’t pick up the bow. “Your sister. Does she know?” He plucked the strings a couple of times.

“Yeah. And Mike called her when I was shot.” John looked at Sherlock. “She doesn’t know I was missing.” And as far as he was aware, she didn't.

“Your family aren’t Shifters.” Sherlock asked in his ‘I want to know more about this but I already know this bit’ way.

“No, my parents don’t know anything about it. Harry saw me change as a kid. She isn’t magical either.”

Sherlock picked up the bow now and played one long, sweet note. “Why is it you chose not to live in that world, or to shift at all?”

John looked at Sherlock carefully. Above the sliding bow, his piercing eyes met John’s vehemently. “You’ve never asked me why I’m a doctor, or why I joined the army.”

“Well, no. Why would I. Obvious. Boring. But I don’t have the data to extrapolate a magical background.” He played two short, sharp notes.

“I didn’t want to leave my family behind. I didn’t have anything to bring me in, I didn’t have many magical friends.”

“Lie.” Sherlock began something slow and melancholy, at the low end of the scale. “You’re really a terrible liar sometimes. At least to me.”

“Why do you want to know? Data?” John huffed, too tired really to be as annoyed as he wanted to.

Sherlock looked at him, not missing a beat no matter where else his attention seemed to be. “You can say no.”

“I saw the only other Shifters I’ve ever known, before Baskerville, abducted. I was with them, it was close. Harriet saved me. She’s the only person I ever told about me. They couldn’t even report them missing. I was scared, and then… I didn’t want to be able to see the things I can. When I read about it, all I found were children’s stories about monsters. I was eleven. I never thought about it again.”

Sherlock played, not saying anything, straight-faced until the bell rang. He didn’t look up, but before John could even try, Mrs Hudson was shouting up the stairs.

“I’ve got it, boys. Don’t worry about it, just rest your leg dear.”

\---

After throwing down his chopsticks, John placed his empty container down on the coffee table and looked on. He was sleepy and contented. Sherlock always knew the best things to order. He hummed as he laid his head back.

“How is it possible we’ve been home this long and the kitchen is still mostly functional?” John lifted his head again and looked at Sherlock suspiciously.

“This is your way of changing the subject.”

“No. I’d just say ‘change the subject’. I’m actually thinking about it.” John laid his head back down and stared at the roof. The painkillers were starting to wear off and his stitches were starting to throb.

“Perhaps I learned to be tidy while you were away.”

John snorted. “That’s the least likely thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Fine. I’d been away from the flat for two weeks before I found you. Mrs Hudson got into everything and ruined all my experiments, and I haven’t had time or supplies to start them over, or test new things.”

“You’re not seriously expecting I’ll believe that. The Sussex Vampire was our first real case since we’ve been back. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop and find where you’ve been causing chaos.”

Sherlock thinned his lips and lowered his brow. “I’m not an overactive child.”

“Hm.” John shrugged and made a hedging expression.

Sherlock looked extremely offended. “Maybe I was just trying to be _nice_.”

John smiled. “Well, excuse me for being suspicious. The last time you were nice, Sarah had to help us fight off Chinese acrobats.”

Sherlock’s smile came back, curling. “She was unexpectedly helpful on that case. You rather liked that one.” He picked up his violin again and his voice began to drip with superiority, “What ever became of her?”

John laid his head back, too full of warm Thai food to get angry. Instead he just felt… exposed. “I dunno. I got sacked, I was too busy with cases and the blog for her… she put up with a lot, though, more than probably she should have had to.”

Sherlock played high notes, which took his excellent control to keep from being screeching. “Did she tease you like the others?”

John couldn't tell if Sherlock was asking normally or poking fun. “Why… why are we talking about this?”

“All else aside, you haven't even been looking to date since before we went to the moors.” Sherlock's playing slowed and transitioned into long, soothing tones. “Curious.”

John chortled a bit, his head shaking against the backrest. “Well I'm glad for it. Even after we finish this case, who'd want to date a werewolf? Other than vapid fan girls who wouldn't know a real one from a silly romance novel.”

Permeating dulcet tones flowed, getting louder until they swirled about and encompassed the room. Sherlock stood for better movement of his arm, swaying a bit as the tune swelled. “Who could love a werewolf… how novel. You’ve no intention of seeking out a community, then?”

“No…” John settled into his chair, the plush allowing him to sink a bit and the music facilitating it. “No, I don’t want to leave. And you know I don’t want to be any more involved if I can help it.”

“Who… you’re a romantic, obviously. You _want_ to love and be loved.” He let the music settle so he could hear John hum assent. “Who, then… someone Sight-less but who knows and accepts you as you are.” The music picked up, setting a feeling of anticipation into the space. “Who could you feel comfortable around, enough to share this secret and allow them to keep close regardless?” John raised his head at the behest of the violin as it picked up speed until the strings vibrated visibly. “Who, indeed, would love a werewolf?”

Sherlock flicked the climax of his song off with a defined flourish, the last two notes dipping then coming sharply up before they were cut off by a steady hand. He smiled at John, who was groggy enough with his meds and sleeplessness and a full belly that he clapped. “Fantastic.”

\---

After that, John dozed on and off as Sherlock practiced a few simpler pieces, until finally his meds began to wear off enough for the chair to become very uncomfortable to sleep in.

“Right.” He stretched and yawned, still a tad dopey from everything. “Bed.”

“Hm. You need to change the bandages first.” Sherlock reminded him, not missing a beat.

John frowned, not wanting to bother with such a task. “Brush teeth, pajamas…” He murmured to himself as he heaved himself up on his cane and walked away to do what he needed.

Sherlock followed and stood in the bathroom doorway, leaning on the frame and crossing his arms. “You should sleep in my bed.”

John looked over, face slack with toothpaste around his mouth as his toothbrush stuck out. “Hm?”

Sherlock moved into the bathroom, waited for John to gargle and spit, then put his hands on each of their foreheads. “Hm. Yes. Higher than your average. Likely a side-effect of the Oxycontin, nothing serious. Still.” He backed up to catch John’s eye. He was still not really reacting, which made the detective uncomfortable. Pliable John wasn't natural. “My bed. I'll fetch your pajamas.”

 

When Sherlock returned, John had woken up quite a bit. Obviously in pain, but neither of them reached for the little bottle they'd sent home with him. Sherlock handed over a well worn pair of striped trousers and a plain white tee.

“Cheers.” John offered, voice a bit rough.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but shut it again as he heard a call from downstairs. He left without a word to check on Mrs Hudson.

 

His return heralded a frown, and the ticking of hands behind his back. “John. You still need to change the dressings. Why have you already put on your trousers?”

After half a tick, John cursed with the realization. It had been plenty difficult and painful to get changed once. But he knew this was an important stage of healing, and not taking care of this sort of wound properly could lead to infection. “Bugger me…”

“No matter, this will be easier.” Sherlock walked right up and knelt at John’s legs, his hands going to John’s waistband.

“Oi!” John jolted away, yelling again in pain as he pushed back with his legs. “Fuck. Sherlock.”

“It will be far easier if I remove your trousers.”

“No.”

“Just take them off yourself, then.” Sherlock huffed. “There’s no reason you should have to change the bandages yourself, at least.” He went off to the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

John sighed and gave in, concentrating on getting his pajama trousers back off without either hurting himself or taking too long.

Sherlock turned around with his med kit to see John was wearing bright red pants. Sherlock blinked, eyes drawn in by the striking color and _nothing else_. “What? So you can’t tell if I get blood on them.” John didn’t even laugh at his own terrible joke. "You know, because I keep getting shot? Nevermind..."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock gave him a smirk (which John was reluctant to attribute to anything but pity) and came over. He knelt at John’s side, put down the kit, and opened it. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“Pfft. After every very nimble thing I’ve seen you do with your hands, the only way you’d hurt me doing this is on purpose.” John laughed off his dread at how he’d worded that. ‘ _Sherlock doesn’t understand double entendres, right?_ ’

“You'll allow me to attend to a gunshot wound while you're in your _strikingly_ red pants, but not to remove your trousers…” Sherlock mumbled as he carefully rolled the bandage up on itself around John’s thigh.

John watched him, blood in his cheeks. Every careful movement, just as practiced as any nurse he'd worked with. “Have much medical experience, then?”

“I have a working knowledge of anatomy, and of medical practices.” Sherlock finished taking off the gauze and put it aside. Then he looked up at John before peeling off the dressing, slowly. His discerning eyes flicked over the spread of dried blood on the unmarried skin around the entry wound, the careful stitching (just two in all) still holding the torn skin closed… “Wait a moment.”

Sherlock took the old bandages into the kitchen. John could hear the sink running as he, too, inspected his wound. It didn't give him the same sick feeling his shoulder had at this stage. But then, this was just a flesh wound. His army injury had been scores more serious.

Returning after a minute with a bowl of water and a cloth, Sherlock said nothing more as he worked. The warm water and soft cloth (who knew they had any left?) felt soothing enough John forgot the situation. At least until Sherlock cupped a hand behind his knee and lifted it up to rest on his shoulder.

It took restraint for John not to jump, it was so… exposing.

But Sherlock didn't linger, using the vantage only to see what he was doing more clearly as he washed the larger exit wound. He set John’s foot back on the hardwood and wrung out the cloth. Then he stood again to empty the water and wash his hands.

John was thankful for the reprieve to collect his nerves. Even though the wet on his leg made him feel cold; the dreary dull ache from something warm and safe retreating. He closed his eyes and settled back, wanting to ask for his little bottle of pills.

“Alright, John?” Sherlock asked above him.

“Yeah.” The patient replied, a soft smile spreading the only movement he made. “Thanks.”

With his eyes closed, John missed the sincerity of Sherlock's replying expression. “Put your leg straight, best wrap it in the position you'll be using the next few hours.”

John complied. The sensation of _feeling_ gentle touches from rough hands was completely removed from the same actions simply _watched_. If it wasn't for the throbbing pain that slowly returned to him, John mused he might fall asleep again under the care…

His eyes blinked quickly open. Fuck, this was completely different from the stress and watchful eye he kept on the people treating him in hospital, from the disregarding selfishness he exercised upon his mother treating him as a boy… this felt intimate like nothing else comparable.

“John?”

Looking down in surprise to see Sherlock had finished (an excellent job, needlessly symmetrical even) and was holding up his baggy old trousers, John swallowed.

“Are you going to let me put them back on?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

If Sherlock thought the distinction between taking them off and replacing them odd, he didn't say it. He just used the same care to slide both legs in and tug them up. As he got them over John’s upper thighs, he used one hand to hold them there while offering the other.

John took it, leaning heavily on his detective’s support to avoid jostling anything. Sherlock guided John’s hands to his shoulders, bending down a little to make it easier, and tugged the pajamas the rest of the way up to sit midway up on his hips.

“Bed.” Sherlock said in a simple yet authoritative tone. Somehow different, without the arrogant subtext perhaps.

“Pills.” John responded similarly, with a smirk. Sherlock responded in kind, the lightness of the expression reaching his eyes.

It was a bit awkward, though Sherlock bending to accommodate his flatmate took nothing away from his sweeping gait. He threw open his covers and slowly, carefully, helped John tenderly get in and lift his legs up.

“I'll fetch your antibiotics and painkillers, then.”

“Just half. Of the latter.”

“Hm.” Sherlock nodded, his hand touching John’s forehead and pushing lightly back into his hair.

Both of them seemed subtly shocked by this gesture at the same time. Sherlock's hand froze only a whisper of a moment before it withdrew, and he turned and walked out easily.

No more words were spoken, glass of water and pills given, glass collected. Easing John back and pulling covers up. Walking out, hesitating half a tick, pulling the door shut after himself.

 

John lay back, sinking into the plush pillows.

 

And that was his evening with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where 'red pants' John came from, I just know it's a thing in our fandom. So I stuck it in there. It made me laugh, I dunno.
> 
> Update!  
> I've plotted out twenty chapters for the next part of this story, Part Two. Twenty seems to have worked here and for the arc of the next bit, it seems like a good bet. Reminder that chapter lengths will be varied in the extreme. Unlikely there will be another 5 part chapter though. Many characters will be recurring! Please let me know in the comments which (other than John and Sherlock, obviously) you liked best, and I'll include more from them in Part Two!


	22. Musgrave's Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has the McGuffin, who knew?  
> Mrs Hudson is the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I have been very caught up. No promises about next chapter but it's been started. Should be a longer chapter as it's a case fic chapter. Hope you're as excited about it as I am!

“He was, unfortunately, dead when we arrived.” Mycroft drawled, voice free of any sort of concern, from where he stood with a file open in his hand in the doorway of Sherlock’s living room. He was speaking down at his brother, and not just because Sherlock was seated on the floor. Spread out in front of him were the files from each of the recovered Shifters, save one. “Mr Lomax, as a Tasmanian Tiger, was being used as proof of the validity of their cloning research. Project Church... Most of the evidence was destroyed, there was a mix up and they saw us coming. They terminated Lomax to cover their tracks. Not that it helped them any.” Mycroft closed his hand on the file, the paper slapping shut, and tossed it down on Sherlock’s pile of reports. The detective glared before repositioning it into his system, which took over a significant portion of the flat now.

“If that’s all…” Sherlock’s cold dismissal failed to succeed.

“Not quite. Where is Miss Bellefeuille? She hasn’t returned-”

“Returned where, Mycroft?” Sherlock raised his head, his curls tossing around him to accentuate his anger. “The Stapleton residence? They were moved for their own safety, if that isn’t too far down in your government oversight. Canada? She’s been declared dead, she can’t exactly show up there out of the clear blue sky. Returned  _ where _ , Mycroft?” He demanded.

Curling his lip with disapproval, the elder Holmes twirled his umbrella on the carpet. His sharp eyes turned up to the sofa, where in the dim light lay a great wolf. The only movement to relay it was alive was the slow rise and fall of it’s chest as it breathed.

Sherlock stood in one motion, blocking the view into the flat, and stepped carefully over his system without looking at it. “Now that  _ is _ all, Mycroft. Get out.” His voice reverberated low in his throat, dripping with the threat of poison.

With a huff and nothing else, Mycroft turned and descended the stairs. 

Sherlock closed the door harder than needed and turned, his chest tightening as he looked upon the sleeping animal on his couch.

He whispered so it wouldn’t hear.

“Why can’t you change back…”

\---

“You’ve been down here every day since we got back to England, Sherlock, and as usual I need more time and more resources and also… yeah, probably the chance to  _ heal _ .” Bluebell licked her finger to turn the page of her book, not looking up when the door opened.

She’d taken up residence, if you could call it that, in 221A Baker Street. It was a bit dreary still, seeing as she only had a sleeping bag, pillow, mini fridge and a little cactus Mrs Hudson had brought down and put in the basement window. The books Sherlock had borrowed were stacked beside where she spent almost her entire day; her sleeping bag, along with a few novels. That’s what she was reading currently.

“I know, I know…” Sherlock paced with his hands behind his back, looking frantic. He stopped and looked at her, and she folded her fingers into the page to save her spot, lowering the book to look at him. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“That’s not exactly true.” She reasoned, tilting her head a bit at this oddly pleading confession. “You’ve got Mycroft and his links to magic.”

“No.” Sherlock began to pace again, and Bluebell watched him. “I cannot go to my brother with this. If he knew John was vulnerable… last time, when he found I’d gotten John back, he nearly had him deported. No. Mycroft cannot know John’s in trouble.”

Considering this, Bluebell blinked slowly. “I’ve told you all I know. It’s almost certainly the circle, if you say he’s not shifted since the auction it makes sense that was the trigger. The circle’s spell involved gnomes, but I didn’t get a good look at it. And I’m not really a caster, either. I don’t have a dedicated familiar, it’s dangerous to ask random Neighbors to do spells if you’re performing them consistently. And all of my contacts are dead or think I am, and it’s safer it stay that way. What about the Shifters you saved? There were six of them, you have to know where some of them are.”

“No… no… I know where the twins are; with my brother. And I doubt they’d know more than you. No. Another returned to somewhere in Africa and she has some political standing. Mycroft would notice if I tried contacting her. I have only the files on the others, one of whom is dead. And the mother of one other shot John. Not likely to want to help, or know anything if she needed to use a gun. The ibex was also in the public eye, Mycroft’s eye. Nothing I can use. No. It’s just you and me.”

“And John.”

Sherlock stopped to look at her, not amused.

“It’s not a jab or a joke. He’s stuck as a wolf but he hasn’t got the brain of one.”

“He’s…”

“It’s a miracle he wasn’t injured. I’ve never seen anything like it. He certainly didn’t call for fae help or cast any spell, but the Ariel still pushed him hard enough he hit the water, not the shore. I still don’t know what to make of that. The whole thing was a blur, to be fair.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Now get out. I told you yesterday, I need some time to get my head on straight or it’ll just take longer for me to be able to help you.” Bluebell sighed, she could picture him without looking; all huffy and pouting. “He’s not in any danger right now. Just… spend time with him. That’s the best thing you can do for the time being.”

She listened, almost able to hear his brain whirring over the impossibility of that suggestion. A problem in his face, and  _ not _ work on it? Incomprehensible. Nevertheless, he did go to the door, hesitate to open it, then decide it was all he could do for now.

Bluebell sighed and put her book back on the pile. He always gave her such a headache. She wanted to help him, honestly… but if she didn’t set firm boundaries, she knew he’d be all over her with his grilling questions and sound-boarding his theories... 

 

After grabbing his excuse for going downstairs again (a covered plate of sandwiches from Mrs Hudson’s icebox), Sherlock swung open his living room and, after closing the door behind him again, took in the disturbingly usual scene. 

Mrs Hudson in front of the telly with a cuppa, John’s furry head in her lap, watching something atrocious only suitable for daytime audiences. The woman greeted him warmly, but John hadn’t looked at him since they’d fished him out of Lake Superior. 

Both of them were panicked; Sherlock would never forget the terrified, painful yelps that echoed out the sopping maw. He’d realized both from the extra weight of the water and John’s frantic climbing up him as if using his paws like hands would make them so, that John the wolf was much larger and heavier than John the man. They’d toppled into the shallow water and pebbles, and John had scrambled to get off him. He gasped and shuddered in the rocks, looking horrified more than before, and no matter what Sherlock said to soothe him… he wouldn’t look at his detective.

It was only through the grace of Mrs Hudson, who seemed to require no explanation to both recognize and immediately accept John, that the stoic wolf had been able to settle down at all. She’d speak to him as she usually did, with the notable difference she wouldn’t say anything that required a response, or if she did it was only that which had a simple answer. Most often yes or no. Sherlock had no idea how it was so easy for her to take in stride, and when he was mulling it over in his chair one night while watching the wolf sleep on the couch, she came to tell him.

“People need different things sometimes. You’re exactly the same, you always have been. Sometimes I act exactly like that with you.” She’d smiled and poured him some tea, and for her it was just that simple.

Indeed, John had been home five days and almost never left the sofa, especially not to go to his bedroom. Sherlock, whether in a show of camaraderie or just taken up by the problem at hand, similarly didn’t venture into his own room either. And without active information to work through, the fatigue was pulling him down hard.

By the time Mrs Hudson excused herself for the evening, leaving on a late night movie though John was already dozing, Sherlock had just about reached his limit.

Tapping his foot readily, irritability crawling up his spine, Sherlock stood and stomped off into his room. John’s ears followed him, though he still didn’t look at his detective.

Emerging in his sleeping clothes a moment later, Sherlock stormed over his floor of files and stood in front of the telly. As an afterthought, he swept around on his heel and clicked it off. With a humph, he faced the sofa again.

“John.” He demanded, nostrils flaring. Not getting any response, he tried again. “John!”

Obviously awake now, with how tense he’d gotten, the wolf curled in on himself.

Frowning deeply, Sherlock took three steps to the edge of the couch, nudging it with his knee. He spoke more resolutely. “ _ John _ .”

Surprised by the forward nature of this gesture, John lifted his head and finally looked at Sherlock. His ears were tapered back as if in shame, as if he were being scolded.

Softening slightly, at least enough to take his fists off his hipbone, Sherlock lowered his tone. “I need to sleep, I haven’t been sleeping, enough is enough. Come.”

Then he waited a second to see his words in John’s eyes, turned, and went back to his room. He left the door open.

\---

That first night, when had John padded behind Sherlock into his room, he felt broken.

The lights were already off, though he could clearly see the lump curled in the bed. John pushed the door closed with his nose, the feelings in the pit of his gut edging out his nerves, which was quite a feat.

Carefully, measurably, he lifted one paw then another onto the mattress. It sank with his weight in a way that made him hesitate. He was unused to this form, obviously, and that made it dangerous. He dared to raise his eyes. He saw pale grey irises staring back at him as the lightest thing in the dark. It made Sherlock seem cat-like; animalistic himself. That more than anything gave John the courage to pull his back legs up on the bed.

Since returning like this, everything in the flat wafted with scent. Most of it was a mixture of himself and Sherlock that made him calm. In here, Sherlock’s musk was overpowering everywhere, though nowhere moreso than here. In the bed. With the man himself.

John slowly lay himself down, first his front paws as if he were stretching, and then the back. At first he was stiff, laying on his legs with his head between them. With his length, he was barely able to avoid the pillow. But that didn’t last long once his leg started to ache, and he let himself slump sideways, back to Sherlock and legs stretching out over the side. He puffed down on the pillow, making his left ear divot upwards with how deep his head sank.

“Here, lots of room.” Sherlock’s voice, dipped down to a whisper that made blood rush to John’s face, invited him. He felt the shuffle as his flatmate moved back. Awkwardly, John pushed himself back to his legs were no longer hanging off but comfortably lounging on the mattress.

He could feel a tickle on his fur. Sherlock wouldn’t touch him. For a moment, that thought made John ashamed…

“John… may I…”

Oh. Care. There it was again, he was not used to… John opened his mouth to answer, but his throat didn’t move, wasn’t able to move, the way he needed it to. He made a noise in the attempt and felt awful. But it seemed to get through, because Sherlock’s fingers were pressing on, exploring just how far in the depths of John’s fur lay flesh. They landed softly, brushing down about an inch before staying still, between John’s shoulder blades.

“It’s quite warm…” Sherlock commented, his breath evening out and his words softening in the telltale signs of sleep.

John pushed his head slowly backwards then closed his eyes.

“Growl if I do something you’d rather I didn’t.” Sherlock mumbled. John settled for a sort of sideways nod of assent.

Then Sherlock’s forearms joined his fingers within the coarse warmth of John’s pelt, and then his head. He pressed his forehead in, his chest, his legs… John was left with the impression of searching for warmth.

Nestled in and finally communicating, Sherlock drifted almost immediately with the fatigue and relief drifting over him in waves.

John took somewhat longer, because though he was not uncomfortable, he wanted to adjust. He wanted to roll over. Instead he found temporary contentment as they were, staring towards the heavy drapes and listening to London, to their city, until he fell asleep without the knowledge of it.

 

In the morning, waking with fingers still deep and loosely grasping in his fur, the thought finally occurred to John he could just as easily have slept on the floor…

\---

Regardless of their feelings about it, there was no communication, attempted or otherwise, about the sleeping arrangements. It became the norm for Sherlock or John, depending on who became tired first (usually John, though when it was Sherlock he was rather pushy about it), to nudge the other and go to Sherlock’s bed. They slept like that, together, every night. Even if Sherlock was working on something, eventually the warrah’s insistence became too bothersome to ignore.

One such night saw Sherlock watching his lab equipment, more specifically his baret. He’d been watching it form a single drop of some milky white liquid for nearly two hours, almost like he was in a trance, and it was far beyond the time John needed to sleep. He’d been dozing on the sofa, but was more and more uncomfortable. Rolling himself off onto the carpet, John stretched before padding over to the kitchen. He sat and stared a moment, but Sherlock hadn’t moved in so long there was little hope John’s presence alone would make him reconsider. Next, he let out a low growl. He could tell Sherlock had registered it (a twitch of the lip), but still nothing. Not feeling like doing the dance of ‘come to bed now, you git’, John pushed himself up and landed his front paws, massive beside Sherlock’s long thin fingers, on the table.

The drop, and a couple of others, landed harshly on the petri dish below. Sherlock stood, his stool screeching back on the tile, and threw his goggles down on the floor. He rounded on John, who looked unimpressed.

“You ruined an entire day’s work, John!”

John huffed out a breath through his nose.

“Don’t give me that, I was nearly done! If you’d have waited…”

John thumped his paw down on Sherlock’s wrist, on his watch.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock raised it to check. “It’s not that late, I-”

John’s lips extended backwards into a smile, making his face look alarmingly human. And smug.

“Fine. Yes.” Sherlock pulled off his gloves slowly, face in a pout. “But this experiment will take quite a while, we need to discuss some compromise to this… arrangement. So I can complete it.”

John’s face settled back to neutral, and he slid backwards to sit on his haunches. He looked very much like an animal now. 

Sherlock felt he’d made a mistake. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of what to say. He’d violated the unspoken agreement that this time be theirs, to rely on one another for some semblance of routine, of normalcy. Sherlock had begun it, and he’d also ended it. He lowered his head, though this only let John see his face better from his vantage. “Let’s go to bed.” He said quietly, resigned in the knowledge he had no idea how to fix this.

He walked to his room. The door was always open a crack, when they weren’t in it, so John could have access. But he turned, seeing John hadn’t moved.

“John?”

The warrah slowly put his paws down, lying on the kitchen floor. It made something in Sherlock ache to see it. He thinned his lips and turned into the bedroom. John lay his head between his paws in resignation. He felt something had broken. Something not entirely internal.

Then the familiar padding of bare feet on the floor, and a rush of air as the familiar heavy comforter settled on his back. Sherlock followed suit at his side a moment later. He leaned into John’s side a bit, cautious not to push. 

“John. I made a mistake. I know you love when I admit that.”

John huffed, because that wasn’t at all true. He loved when Sherlock was brilliant. He missed telling him so.

“I don’t do this on purpose.” Sherlock struggled. He had no idea how to do this. At least this was a failure he was used to. He jumped when a cold wet nose pressed to his neck and looked into John’s much larger than should be eyes. He looked just as lost as Sherlock felt. Sherlock put a hand on his head, though at the angle it was awkward. “I’m sorry. We’ll figure this out.”

John let out a little whine and put his head back down. 

 

They slept there, on the kitchen floor.

\---

After that, things had gotten easier, if only by a small margin. A small margin was enough. John no longer avoided eye contact and though he still spent most of his time in the living room, some of it was now on the floor next to Sherlock as he went over his files for the umpteenth time. Though Sherlock didn’t take notice, at times he would let his hand fall into fur as he was stuck in his mind, behind his eyes. John noticed.

Being a wolf wasn’t like he remembered from childhood. He’d hoped when he was forced to Shift at the zoo, the feelings were due to distress. Apparently not the case. He spent much of his time not moving, because though his muscles itched with the compulsion to run, the rest of his senses were blaring at him. He could hear an argument in traffic down the block, his nose was constantly invaded mostly by things he couldn’t discern (thanks Sherlock and your bloody experiments), and his eyes… they saw the color spectrum differently. Altogether, it gave him a massive headache, and a week in he still wasn’t used to it. Even his nerves were different, he was too damn hot under his fur and his skin moved around on his muscles and bone unlike human skin. He also despised having a tell on his arse. Most people assumed wagging meant happy, which was frustrating when it actually meant excited. Good or bad. Anxiety. He’d barely been able to contain himself, wanting to bark at people to piss off, when they were on their way back and he was in public eye (on a bloody leash to boot).

Finally having enough, feeling he didn’t have to softpaw around as much (his size and lack of thumbs made him anxious he’d be dangerous) after last night, John stood, shook himself off (upsetting a couple of pages near him), and went to the kitchen with his head down in annoyance.

Sherlock looked up to watch him.

Good.

Going up on the counter with his fronts, John nudged his nose under the cabinet door. It took a couple tries but he got it to open. Fuck, he could still read but adapting his vision to the task was odd and made him nauseated at first. He reached his paw in carefully and pulled down a bottle, though three came with it onto his head.

Sherlock stood and came over to pick them up as John got down. “I could help, you know.”

Glaring, John thought a second on what he wanted to portray. He made a sort of gagging noise and followed it up with a little sort of howl.

Sherlock’s face crinkled as he stood with the bottles held dexterously between the fingers on one hand. 

John made the noise again, slower.

“Oh. ‘How?’”

John nodded. Fuck this was aggravating. 

“I see.” Is all Sherlock had in way of an answer. He held the bottles up. “Which one?” John indicated with his nose. Sherlock looked it over and replaced the others where they came from. “Headache.” He looked at John. “Will this even take with your biology? I would at least need to modify the dosage…”

John growled, low and quick.

“Well…” Sherlock huffed right back. “What do you suggest? Want I should call a vet?”

John bared his teeth and barked just once, bumping Sherlock on his way past.

Behind him, his detective shook his head. “What do you want from me? I’m trying.” He called after, frustrated. 

John pushed his way into Sherlock’s room and, perfectly aware he would have to ask to be let out later, kicked the door shut with his back leg.

 

After sleeping off his migraine in the bed a few hours, John woke to the door cracked again, a bowl of water next to the dresser, a little saucer with five white pills on it, and a note stating the science used to determine the dosage. With a little huff of esteem, John licked up the pills and washed them down.

\---

While Sherlock went downstairs (how he thought in any way John wouldn’t catch on was either vapid or insulting, or both) for hours at a time to talk to Bluebell, John sat rather contentedly with Mrs H on the sofa. He sometimes took to watching the telly, making little noises she always seemed to understand in way of commentary, but mostly he just lay there. And appreciated how just her touch could keep him in the flat, in the moment. Just hear the telly, not the traffic. Just feel his jaw on her thigh and her hand on his head, not his skin or the heat (ok he still felt the heat, mostly). He felt more like himself, even though this was the last thing he’d be doing with her if he  _ were _ himself. Because even now, he couldn’t admit the warrah was part of him, intrinsic and deep seeded.

“How are you and Sherlock doing, with all this?” She asked as the show ended and credits began sinking slowly over the screen.

John let out a shuttering humph and shut his eyes.

“You don't have to talk to me about it, but surprisingly enough, Sherlock can be quite receptive to it. Especially when he's surprised.”

John groaned disparagingly and looked up at her through half-lidded eyes. Then he yawned, stood, jumped down and stretched.

“It won't be like this forever, John, and mark me… you may come to wish it were. While looking back.”

Only because it was Mrs Hudson, and only because they were alone, John actually acknowledged that suggestion. Even if only to disagree.

The not-housekeeper laughed fondly. “Let me put it to you differently.” She reached down beside the sofa and pulled out the alder cane, running her hand down the smoothed knots and bumps. “I understand how upset you were about needing one, when we met. But this one… there are times it's helped you with more than your leg. Sometimes… aren't you grateful to have it?”

John sat on the floor and looked at her, then the cane. She had a point… but not one he was ready to accept. His tail thumped on the floor twice before he stood and walked away.

\---

Waking from one of his sessions of afternoon dozing on Sherlock’s bed, John’s ears perked up almost immediately as the voice from the living room hit him like ice water. He’d become too trusting, too into the routine they’d struck of being in the flat at all times and watching crap telly and sleeping with Sherlock nestled into his fur. 

Now the Holmes’ were arguing heatedly, and it didn’t take his advanced hearing to know it was about him.

“-blame me?! The last time you brought a  _ muzzle _ for fuck’s sake!” Sherlock bellowed. That was not the image John wanted upon waking. He felt in the past he’d missed a cathartic opportunity to punch Mycroft in the face.

“Really, Sherlock. I thought we’d put that behind us.” Mycroft drawled, taking his ‘high ground’ of emotionlessness.

“No.” He could hear Sherlock pacing now. “No,  _ John _ put it behind him, somehow. I did not. You could hand me ten thousand favors and I would not ‘put it behind me’.”

“It hardly matters, that is not why I’m here.”

“If that’s a case…”

And John pushed the door open, sitting in the space between rooms as it swung wide. Both brothers stopped talking to look at him. He gave the space between them a sardonic look, not making eye contact with either.

After a few ticks, Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke. “Remarkable. As one of the relatively smaller breeds of wolf, and with your species extinct, you could pass easily for a very large dog.” John huffed at him and showed his teeth. Not aggressively. Well, not  _ overly _ aggressively. 

“Well. You will likely have to again. It wouldn’t hurt either to have yourself registered.”

“Mycroft!”

John barked just once and tilted his head a bit. He wasn’t happy about it, but for the time being… if he had to leave the flat for any reason, he was too big to go unnoticed and registration could be a fair safety measure.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and bouncing up to sit atop the back of his chair, Sherlock grumbled. “ _ I _ don’t like it, John.”

John blew a huff through his nose and shook himself before coming over to his chair and taking it before Mycroft could. Then he looked expectantly at the elder Holmes.

“Right.” Mycroft stood up straighter and offered the manila file he was carrying under his arm to Sherlock. The younger just glared. “You will want to take this, brother dear. It is information Andrea dug up, with no assistance from you or perhaps she’d have had it earlier.” Thinning his lips when his brother remained stubborn, Mycroft let the folder fall open and looked down his nose to read from it. “‘Musgrave’s Ritual. An old, advanced circle requiring the assistance from at least ten mid-range Fae of the Earth…’ a simplistic translation… ‘which, when executed precisely, traps a…’ I do not know this word, herra, heyra…”

He was abruptly cut off as Sherlock snatched the file and ran his sharp eyes over it quickly, flipping aside diagrams and cuttings as he went. “What is her source?”

John tentatively sniffed in the folder’s direction, but it wasn’t anything obvious apart from the sting of ink and mustiness of paper. 

“I did not go into it with her. She handles that side of my work.” Mycroft waved off his question. He looked at John right on, and the doctor glared right back. “You know… my offer stands. If you come to a point you would like to get aid on your own from an established community, I can ease the transition for you.”

“No thank you, Mycroft.” Sherlock was too engrossed to be dramatically cross.

“I was not speaking to you.”

“Yes well…” Sherlock looked over at John, holding up a paper to him as he did so. He squinted while looking between the paper and the wolf. “He’s not exactly conversational at the moment.”

Letting out a low growl aimed at the both of them, John lay himself down in a curled puff on his chair. He wondered mildly if he shed, if he would have to hoover after himself… if he ever got his thumbs back.

He half listened to the brothers argue about twenty minutes longer before his ears perked and twitched. Sherlock noticed immediately and looked to the door and listened to the footsteps launching themselves up the stairs.

When Lestrade burst in, he seemed to freeze a moment to take in the scene. To be fair, there were a few elements which would have been surprising on their own. The one he chose to hone in on, probably due to self preservation at least on a subconscious level, was… “Since when did you get a dog?”

Sherlock scowled and nodded to the file in the DI’s hand, he seemed to be collecting them lately. Usually the police weren’t so keen on his touching the manila. “A case too embarrassing for you to not be capable of solving, detective?”

Lestrade shook off his distraction… a staring contest with the wolf-dog. “Uh.” He looked over at Sherlock. “Yeah, not this time. This is about the Yard’s OT and a very odd case out at the shore. Little burg name of Fulworth out in Sussex. Local PD’s at their wit’s end apparently, and your reputation lingers out there from when you helped my mate out.” He held out the file.

Sherlock looked at it like it was vile, scrunching up his nose. “I loathe to repeat myself;  _ I am busy _ .” He looked back down at his brother’s gift, as if that ended the conversation.

Lestrade leaned back a little, and John was still watching him. He had something. He was confident. John raised his head to better watch.

“There’s a kid, laid out dead with whipping marks all across his back.”

Sherlock continued to ignore him, reading the circle as if it were a paragraph in a language Sherlock was just beginning to learn.

“They found him about a minute before he died.”

The detective was basically gone to Lestrade’s voice.

“He had two last words… ‘Lion’s Mane’.”

As John cocked his head to the side, Sherlock raised his.

And Lestrade grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes they are sleeping together now. Do they see it as a man and a dog? Does just one of them? Are they thinking about it that deeply?
> 
> John is having a pretty hard time, Sherlock is mostly frustrated and confused.
> 
> Also for clarity's sake, OT stands for overtime.
> 
> As always, I encourage comments.


	23. The Lion's Mane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has taken on a normal case from Lestrade while he works on the Ritual. John comes along but can't leave the beach house. Bluebell gets uppity. Papa Lestrade is tired, but that's not news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I'm not dead!
> 
> It's been a hellish time for me lately, I won't go into it but it involves med changes and side effects. Things are leveled off again and you'll be glad to know I'm working on this for NaNoWriMo! So hopefully a lot more updates to come before the end of the month! Thanks so much for your patience.
> 
> Also I found this gem on Tumblr after a web search about what the plural of Wendigo is:  
> Probably Wendigone. Because I'm not sticking around for one let alone multiple omfg.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING!  
> Animal death and the description of animal corpse

 

Standing upon the cliffs and looking out as the ocean threw itself at the English shoreline, Sherlock thought of many things… but none of them involved the ‘Lion’s Mane’. No. Mostly he thought about standing up on cliffs in a different part of his country before everything turned ugly. When he believed himself above things like delusions of magic and love, when both those things were left behind in childhood. When John stood behind him, watching him be dramatic but not calling him on it.

John.

Whatever could be extrapolated from it, that’s what his life had become. The Work, the… well, what else was there before John? The reason he allowed this, regardless how terrifying this shift of intellectual paradigm seemed when he paid it mind, was that John only ever wanted him exactly as he was. Not in a pushy way, nor a self indulgent one. As equals, who had sets of checks and balances. From the moment he'd told John directly where his priorities lay, they'd been respected up to the point of serious detriment to himself or others. He'd never been told off about his work habits or his disregard (or misunderstanding) of social norms, not until they caused serious harm. And even then, a discussion or stern reminder of one transpired. True acceptance of the sort Sherlock had not been aware of in either concept or existence... that is what John Watson had given, in fact gave freely and without guile.

He owed no less.

No.

No, not owed. Johns social transaction had always been unconscious and without tacked-on value. With Sherlock, it took more effort. In fact careful observation over time. It was, for him, a concept new to his adult life; he wanted to understand and reciprocate the support and acceptance he'd been shown.

Of course, John was a vastly differed creature from himself (and not in a beastial manner, at least not in this context). Mimicry would be a vapid practice here. No. Sincerity was prerequisite. That was his issue in it's nature exactly. Sincerity for Sherlock was either faked for a specific, short term gain... or put forth without awareness, as part of his natural state. But this expression fit neither category.

This case should have been able to pull his attention in it’s entirety, but he couldn’t stop himself from working on the file Mycroft had given him. On the Musgrave’s Ritual. He looked at the circle, stared at it, for hours, to work the pattern from any angle he could concoct. The most promising, from his processes, was mathematical. He needed more, he needed a control. A circle that was fully versed both in practice and on paper. Bluebell had refused to leave 221A, no matter how much Sherlock goaded her.

\---

Though he’d been brought along (for reasons he couldn’t fathom), John was sequestered in the beach house they’d been given use of during the investigation. He paced the living room, though it did him no good, and worried.

The things on his mind were far from those of his partner, who fretted as he thought of the past. John thought of their future. Or rather, of _his_ future. Sherlock, he was certain, would be the man he’d met years past. A detective. As for himself… what would happen if they never broke him out of this form? It was a very real possibility, and he felt he needed to think of his options.

Going to a Shifter community was unthinkable for him. Even if he were stuck like this, he didn’t want to wade further in. Just as likely they’d say he was gifted as they would help him return to being human. Besides the fact Mycroft was pushing for it, and that man always had hidden motives. It wasn’t just about protecting his brother, and it wasn’t the thing Mycroft wore as his reasoning on the surface; helping John. He ruled out going across the ocean.

His next tact, as he swiveled and noticed how easily he was moving as the warrah with his entire body (much to his dismay), was the option of actually remaining as Sherlock’s partner. Though as a canine. The problems he’d face… having no autonomy of his own, especially if they got separated. He wouldn’t be able to run the usual errands Sherlock bid him do on a case, they’d need to work together physically closely. He would be able to offer senses they didn’t have access to before, but that was true enough of his human form with the Sight as it was… But even then, how would they communicate? Simple things were alright, though conspicuous, but more complex ideas, especially in an emergency, would be a big problem.

The next option made John sit resolutely, a look of bitter annoyance on his furry brow. Leave. Leave and either accept his circumstances or try to resolve them on his own (if that were remotely possible, he didn’t put much stock in). To John, that would be the same as giving up. Not in his nature. But he certainly couldn’t come along and sit around all day, like a pet.

Shaking his head turned to violently shaking his entire body, finishing with a flick of his tail. He huffed out a blast of breath and rolled onto his back and let his eyes unfocus as he stared up at the faux hardwood ceiling.

_‘Why hasn’t the Ariel come to collect her part of the deal? I doubt I’d be able to make another, but she could possibly give insight on some level…’_

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been visited by other fae. They were abundant here, mostly light and friendly… which was harder, because they coaxed him with sweet words and appealing suggestions.

‘Run!’ They’d say as they danced around as a breeze through his fur (indoors). ‘Run around and dance in the flowers and spice! You can feel as if you can fly! No walls! No barriers! Turn around where you wish, chase and hunt as you see fit, be free!”

If they spoke to John just as he woke, he had a moment where he confused their words with his own thoughts… it wasn’t like he didn’t want to run around, to go out and look around, to follow after Sherlock… Something! Anything!

A whimper escaped his maw as he let himself fall on his side and closed his eyes. Out here, the thyme and grass and flowers were overpowering. He couldn’t smell more than traces of Sherlock (and he was hardly about to go roll around in the laundry), and there was nothing of his human self there either. He would take the smell of urine and smoke, even. Mrs Hudson’s ‘soothers’, or the perfume she’s stopped wearing when John the Warrah had come home… he could still nearly see it wafting around her…

John’s mind flooded with memories of scent, which had now replaced the words of his thoughts, and he drifted off in the middle of the living room with round-headed rampion in his nose and nothing else in his head.

\---

Sherlock took out his mobile.

No service.

Frowning at the partially functionless box as if it personally denied him the ability to communicate, Sherlock tucked it away and turned to return to the task at hand, placing his machinations aside in the most recent renovation to his mind palace for later as he stepped down off the jagged chalky cliffs and towards the one treacherous path down them.  

This was where the first traces of evidence occurred, though apparently that opinion was not shared by local PD; it hadn’t been cordoned off. But Sherlock walked slowly, collecting the movements of persons there days before.

Finally coming to the cordoned off area, Sherlock stepped deftly under the distinct yellow tape even as it struggled in a fight with the wind.

Kneeling beside the white outline, he found that to combat the effects of wind and wave on gravel the PD here had mixed white paint and glue, instead of the usual chalk utilized in the city. No blood.

A casual gaze down the hillside corroborated the tale he’d been presented with earlier; a clear (to Sherlock) image was etched into the pathway of a clawing, spasming, and desperate thin young person. The last moments of agony clutched the setting so strongly to Sherlock he felt as if he’d been there.

Putting that in the outskirts of his awareness, Sherlock continued down the slope. It was worn in the middle as a trickle from a stream; frequented but only by a trio of people.

The pool at the bottom was pristine, he could see the appeal. Shimmering waters caught from the ocean and warmed by what little sun it was graced by. It would be safe unless there was a storm raging, and that happened frequently enough the water didn’t become stagnant and putrid.

More of the paint-glue marked numbers in place of tokens. Sherlock wondered dully if they could not afford a camera or some such nonsense, if these were left here.

A rustle on the far side of the little lagoon was recognized and outwardly ignored until the figure of a tall angular man in his middle age emerged.

“Ta, then, Mr Holmes.” He greeted stoically as he eyed the detective critically.

Sherlock stood, hands in his pockets as they were, and regarded him back in kind. “You did not think it pertinent, Mr Murdoch, to inform the police of that ‘back way in’?” _‘That seems to be in the arena of ‘obstruction of justice’, Mr Murdoch.’_ Sherlock shook his head and frowned deeply at himself. He heard exactly what John would say if he were standing here with him.

Frown deepening, Ian Murdoch shifted his weight to one leg and locked eyes with Sherlock. “Big city detective, I was hoping we could finally get past idiotic suspicions about my involvement with poor McPherson’s death and on to the _real_ investigation.” He clicked his tongue to punctuate his opinion.

“Indeed. Well generally I take stock of facts myself before drawing any sort of conclusions such as your innocence or guilt. Who then should I turn my attentions to, in your supposed wisdom?”

“Bellamy, of course! He has the only motive, he couldn’t stand his precious daughter seeing Fitzy!”

Sherlock merely raised a critical brow, and the suspect’s temper flared. He produced a crumpled scrap of paper from his trousers and hurled it into the detective’s face. “See for yourself! He had this on him when… when…” It seemed he could speak no longer, fists shaking at his sides.

Sherlock could see why people assumed Murdoch was short-tempered… but clearly he was much closer to tears than rage.

Taking up the note in his gloved hands (not that it overly mattered, the evidence was tainted), Sherlock carefully opened it and smoothed it as best he could. _‘You removed evidence from a crime scene?’_ He shook his head minutely, once, to stave off John’s voice and his little grin of halfhearted admonishment from his mind.

After taking careful stock of the new information and pocketing the note, Sherlock turned up his collar and considered Murdoch. “Take me to his estate, then.”

The man looked confused, but turned and made his way back through the brush, Sherlock dogging behind mindfully.

\---

A clacking followed presently by the opening of the front of 221 made Bluebell’s ears twitch. From the raucous thumping on the hardwood and the familiar exclamations from Mrs Hudson, Mycroft had come to pawn off the twins on her again. It happened, she suspected, when his assistant needed to work away from the office. Though she was there as well, her heels could be recorded for a metronome.

 _‘Well…’_ she thought as a squat creature used a crook twice it’s height to make it’s way down into 221A, _‘it was bound to happen eventually.’_

The little creature, which Bluebell knew was Fae but did not recognize, stopped at the bottom of the steps and nodded politely at her.

She spoke cautiously but politely, “And your partner?”

The little thing looked a bit nervous. _‘She did not wish to intimidate you…’_ It needed to clear it’s throat several times in order to speak, and she got the impression it rarely did so.

Bluebell snorted a bit through her nose. “Intimidate? That’s rich of her, honestly.”

The door swung lazily open as the woman herself clicked a few buttons and pocketed her Blackberry. She came down and helped her familiar up onto her shoulder. “More like, no need to invade your space if we could communicate through Basil. Miss Bellefeuille.”

The two women sized each other up, the invisible strands of power in the room swirling, cascading around them both without invocation. Bluebell held her own though she was disheveled, looking like a worm-mermaid in her sleeping bag, thin and short. Even without the tailored skirt suit, professional manicure, correct posture and capable familiar of the figure opposite.

A small tug up at the corners of her mouth, Andrea stood forward and blinked down at the rabbit-shift. “Among my purview is the task of assessing threats surrounding the younger Holmes. That is why I’ve come. You didn’t expect to remain here undetected long.” She spoke, the assumption confirmed by a slow blink. She nodded minutely and continued, “I am not here to expel you, though I doubt I’d have much trouble if I were…” the underlying threat wasn’t missed, “...instead, I have elected to instigate my own surveillance. Our area is outside conventional means, and honestly much less dull.” Andrea shot a nod of acknowledgement before continuing. “And to ask your intentions.”

Leveling a heavy sigh and pushing her oddly cropped hair back, Bluebell thinned her lips to reply. “Helping Sherlock and John, obviously, seeing as your employer won’t. Honestly, I have quite a lot on my mind… I could give you a piece, if I thought it would get anyone anywhere.” She huffed, furrowing her brow, and sniffed in a deep breath. “You know what, fuck it. You and Mycroft are unbelievable! You knew about John as soon as he turned up, you knew about magic and the Fae long before that even! Given all the shit Sherlock gets himself involved with, how in the world do you justify _not_ telling him?! If you hadn’t just stood back, John would never have been taken. They both could easily have died on the moor, and you were directly involved in them getting access to Baskerville! It boggles my mind how Mycroft operates where his brother is concerned! I won’t even get _into_ deporting John, but jesus christ! And you…” taking a deep breath, Bluebell’s attention snapped like a whip and something became suddenly apparent. “It’s you. You’re the heron.”

Andrea blinked, her small smile still in place though Basil looked somewhat frantic. “Oh?”

“Yeah, Sherlock’s told me all about the lost Shifter case. You can hide your smell somehow, I don’t know… that’s not important but…” narrowing her eyes and really concentrating… she was certain, “yeah. It’s you.” She sat back with another huff, feeling exhausted and sad. “I don’t understand… How can you just…” She pushed her face into her hands. God, these people…

“You seem to be underestimating Sherlock, darling.”

“No…” Bluebell raised her head, face sour. “I’m _correctly_ estimating Sherlock. He’s like a little kid, and it’s making more and more sense why. You, and when I say ‘you’ I mean you _and_ Mycroft, constantly treat him like one. You stand above him, all smug and proud of yourselves, and think ‘oh there’s no sense telling him anything, we can take care of this’ when really you don’t, and don’t see him as an _adult_ , you’re just bloody helicopter parents and it’s _gross_. Soooo much is making sense to me now. Why the hell am I wasting my breath, I’m just thinking out loud at this point because you don’t see anyone as anything but beneath you dear god…. _Ouch!_ ”

Looking up and rubbing the bump forming on her head, she saw Basil a foot in front of her, frowning deeply and wielding his crook.

Andrea chuckled. “That’s quite alright, love. I think we know what we came to find out.” With another timid glare, the bogle turned and climbed back up on her shoulder as she turned. “Thank you. Please send word if you need anything.” She remarked, not unkindly, as she made her way up the stairs.

Baffled as she heard the muffled activities above, collecting the twins and saying goodbyes and leaving, Bluebell just stared at where the brunette had disappeared. “What…”

 

Sliding after the rowdy girls into the sleek black sedan, Andrea tapped a few keys and looked up across her to her employer.

“Well?”

With a smirk before returning to her phone, a light came into Andrea’s face. “I quite like her.”

\---

The walk up to Fulworth, waves swiping out of sight to their cliff-lined right, was rather pleasant. Murdoch seemed of a single-mindedness Sherlock had seen plenty of, leading silently in all but his body language. _‘He came to fetch me for this… either he has yet to be convinced of his own assumptions or he is intent on pursuing justice by way of the law.’_ The detective mused to himself as he followed.

As it came into view below and across, the little hamlet lying in a hollow curving semicircle round the bay expressed a great many secrets to Sherlock. Mostly old yet well kept homes and shops, a few very new villas had been built upon the rising ground. It was to them Murdoch led them.

“Mr Bellamy.” Sherlock prompted, before they got too close.

Murdoch grunted, slowing a tad to speak freely. “The Haven, he calls it.” The man gestured to the house a ways still from them. “Corner tower, slate roof. Maude is his greatest treasure amongst all the boats and such he owns. Made his way up from just another fisherman. Between him and his…” Sherlock read the un-uttered curse that hung between them, “ _son_ , William, they treat her exactly as that; a treasure. One Fitzy wasn’t worthy of, in their opinion.”

As they came up to the front garden gate, they came across someone leaving. Murdoch colored in surprise.

“What’re you doing here?” He rumbled, anger and hurt on his tongue.

Closing the gate carefully, the man turned and crossed his arms. “I could bloody well ask you the same, Ian.” The man looked tired, running out of rope, and the black circles sagging beneath his eyes were only one of many indicators he was grief-stricken.

“Dammit Stackhurst, I might live under your roof, and be in your employ, but I don’t need to tell you what I do in my own time!” Murdoch snapped back, clearly pushing something significant between them.

Stackhurst’s eyes darkened. “Is that the way you want it? You could have said earlier. You can’t ask me-”

“Are you protecting him, Harold?! Fitzroy is _dead_!” Murdoch punctuated his anger by throwing his fist through the pristinely painted white board nearest him.

Stackhurst didn’t look overly surprised, but his eyes flashed as he grabbed Murdoch’s shoulder and pulled him away from the fence. Sherlock didn’t miss the way his eyes ran over the injured arm. Mostly nicks and splinters. Then Stackhurst got in Murdoch’s space. “This is the last time. Your violent anger is done, as far as I’m concerned, I won’t put up with another second of it. Get your things and get out.”

Before the stricken man could articulate a reply, Stackhurst turned on his heel and marched off.

Sherlock gave him a moment before he cleared his throat. “Shall we go in, then?”

\---

The day had dragged on so slowly, John could not find sleep to pass it more quickly and the radio had become irritating enough he’d gone through the complicated process of turning it off without thumbs (Not like Sherlock would care if it didn’t turn on again).

The scent of fresh thyme drifted in on the salty air, making John’s nose twitch and his mind still with the subtle contradiction of sweet and bitter drifting into the beach house. A part of his brain was trying to push forward the recollection of roasted lamb using those herbs, but it was overruled by a more visceral inkling of the stiff tickling stems and leaves of the wild plants crushing under his hearty, sensitive paw pads. He’d never been so itchy to run, far and fast as he could, and another deeper instinct words would not reveal to him.

God, at this point no matter the looks he may get, padding after Sherlock on his case was seeming more and more like a better alternative… at least to the part of John who clung stubbornly to his human life. It could work. It could.

He shook violently, fur scattering around him like a reddish brown halo on the floor. The itching was getting worse and worse, and he was thinking of fewer and fewer reasons to ignore it. Bugger Sherlock. Bugger the desperate voice crackling further and further back in his mind that he should _not_ leave the house. Bugger bugger bugger.

John huffed, letting out a little growl he didn’t notice, and just continued to pace around, mind empty but irritated.

\---

The pub was quiet, considering what they were like in London, but still a myriad of distracting banter and other noises such as the pouring of liquid and clinking of glasses. But it would do. Sherlock told himself it was to collect more information on the players in his case… and that was about half true. But he also wasn’t ready to go back to the beach house and see John. His inability to properly face the problem caused by the ritual irked him enough his skin tingled with it when he was around the wolf. The only respite was work, research, or… oddly enough… a faceful of John’s fur. He’d been sleeping a lot more, and much better, since their arrangement began. Even if it did distract from ongoing projects…

As he ordered a pint he had little intent to finish, he allowed himself to ponder whether John would insist they continue even on a case, even now. Then he blocked it off, sat down at a table in a back corner, and let his eyes flick about and pick up eccentricities.

He didn’t have long to wait, as Stackhurst came in with slumped shoulders and hollow eyes. He mumbled his order, a double of something, and caught sight of Sherlock. No need to wave him down, he plopped into the chair opposite and took a draw.

“Mr Holmes. I apologize for this afternoon. I’m glad you’re here. In a small place like this, people become close, you know. Like family. Losing Fitzy…” His eyes rose to meet Sherlock’s.

“You were the first to see him, as he came out of the lagoon. And you were there when he died.”

“Yes…” Stackhurst admitted quietly.

“I examined the body earlier this afternoon.” Sherlock took a drink, watching carefully but subtly for ticks in Stackhurst’s expression or body. “Those markings on his back, as if flogged to death with a cat-o-nine tails.

“It was horrible, truly horrible… he died in agony. God, I felt useless. A minute of panic felt like an eon and no time at all, you know? And that’s… that’s all he could manage. ‘Lion’s Mane’.” Stackhurst took a long draw, nearly downing the glass, as he bit back a sob.

“Any idea what that means?” Sherlock asked calmly.

“No, no…” The shaken man answered, taking a shuddering breath before looking up with a minute smile. “Isn’t that what got you here, Mr Holmes? ‘The mystery of the Lion’s Mane’, as I’m sure Dr Watson will call it on his blog. I looked at it when I heard you were coming. Where is Dr Watson, by the way? Hope you two aren’t having as hard a time as Ian and I.” He said, not unkindly.

Sherlock considered him a moment. “Worse, I’m afraid. He’s being difficult, as I’m certain you can relate to. It’s… disappointing. You know, after all this time together. As partners.” He said, a pointed trill to his casual tone. He sipped his beer as he watched the emotional man take his bait. John would not approve, were he there.

“Worse, you say?” Stackhurst chuckled sadly. “Have you kicked him out as well, then?”

Sherlock caught the bartender’s eye and mimed an order for another round, though his beer had hardly been touched, before replying. “At a certain point, it isn’t really worth it, is it? Best we cut our losses and move on. Personally, I prefer to be alone than with someone who can’t control themselves.” He huffed, nose up in the air.

An odd look came over Stackhurst, and the detective knew he’d hit his mark. “Now wait a tick…” He started, Sherlock taking on a confused expression though he was anything but, “Ian has _passion_ , as does your John from what I’ve seen. To say their worth is… is…. Overridden by their mistakes…” The drinks arrived and Stackhurst grabbed his right from the server’s tray, downing the whole thing and replacing it where it’d been before continuing what was ramping up as a tirade. “Sir I’ll, let me tell you…”

A commotion started before he could continue, the bar door opening with a thud. Sherlock stood as he recognized the DI, and vice versa. They crossed the room of staring patrons to meet in the middle. Lestrade's brow was gleaming slightly; he’d been running.

“There you are, a pub for godsakes? Nevermind. Come on, there’s another body.”

“Another?” Sherlock walked in step with the DI towards the exit, pulling on his coat and scarf.

“Yeah, same markings and everything, but it’s a dog this time. Right beside the same lagoon, even.”

Sherlock paled.

“Dog?” There was a screech of chair legs and Stackhurst was with them, shoving through the door into the chill of dusk, the shadows of a setting sun cutting across the roads. “What sort?” He asked, sobered by the news and the possibility it brought.

“Um, big fuzzy one. Airedale, I think?” Lestrade answered as he led the way with his bright, heavy torch.

“My god…” Stackhurst put on some speed and rushed past both men.

Sherlock frowned and sped up. “Come on, he’ll ruin your crime scene.” He scolded Lestrade. His heart pounded. John’s Shift was hardly comparable to an Airedale, but… he hardly trusted Lestrade to identify…

 

They found the dog in the fading light, a couple of local PD speaking in hushed tones to Stackhurst, right beside the water. It’s fur was soaked flat against it’s frame, the remains of a struggle evident around it. Water, mostly, sprayed around. It’s face was contorted grotesquely, tongue laying out, mouth frothed, eyes wide and dead. And the most damning of all was the lashing. It wrapped around the dog’s back, ugly red gashes that curled about it’s rib cage and dug in, pushing away or ripping out fur… Sherlock could not be sure. He donned his gloves and took out his microscope, but before he could bend down to examine it…

“God, my god, it’s as if a personal attack… Fitzy’s dog… what monster could do this? My god…”

Something in Stackhurst’s wailing struck in Sherlock’s mind. He froze, his mind whirring madly behind his eyes. He didn’t hear Lestrade ask if he were alright. He didn’t notice the movement around him for the next few minutes.

When he snapped back to himself, Sherlock immediately grabbed Lestrade to get his attention away from instructing the small town PD. “Nearest library.” He demanded, not bothering to elaborate.

“Uh. Sussex U, I think.” Lestrade pointed down past Fulworth, in the general direction of the campus.

“Excellent. You drive. I need to think.”

“Sherlock, there’s…” But the detective was already walking swiftly towards Lestrade’s sedan. How he knew where the DI had parked…

With a sigh, he rambled off a few last instructions to the PD, condolences to Stackhurst, then was off to follow Sherlock Holmes.

\---

Hearing the pained cries of an unidentified canine down the road, echoing off the waves and cliffs to make it strikingly ethereal, John froze on the spot and pointed his large ears towards it. His heart pounded with danger, the concerned part of his brain was losing out to the instinctual one. The human in him needn’t have worried, though, as the cries died off in no time at all.

All of his senses pushed into overdrive. The salty air invaded from a particularly strong gust off the ocean. He moved as something clicked in his brain, something switched. Off or on, not even he could say.

\---

“I've been thinking…” Bluebell’s voice rang clear through the landline at Sussex University, and Sherlock could almost see her from the other noises which were carried through.

From the flipping back and forth of a singular page, the slight muffling of her words by her breathing, the light tapping of her relatively large feet painted enough he could see all but her state of dress.

“... about the Wendigo.” She continued after the large pause that allowed Sherlock to fill silence with deduction. “There's something not right… I remember seeing it's near black blood smeared on the cobbled beach, so it definitely landed there. So where was it? I'm not familiar with them overly, just little things from lore, but I don't think they vanish after death. And there wasn't a trail, I don't think…”

“Much more active, I see.” Sherlock commented, not at all irked about the delay.

“Once you left and especially somewhere communication is hard, I finally got the rest I needed. Go figure.”

“You were saying something interesting a minute ago, for a change.”

“Hey.” He could hear her frown and exceeded her in that expression. “The rules haven't changed, Mr Holmes…” she knew it annoyed him when she called him that, they'd discussed it (mostly in sarcasm and subtext) after his insistence upon a more familiar title for John, “... if you want my help, you'll behave yourself. I can just as easily work on this problem quietly.”

Biting his tongue was the best way Sherlock could be certain he wasn't breaking one of her inane ‘rules’, at least three of which he'd deleted after finding John.

“Good.” She nodded after about thirty mind-numbing seconds. “Now you already know…” Sherlock had to physically control himself from making a very rude comment about ‘you already know’ beginning her information sharing. “...that most Wendigo are visible to anyone. The fact there aren't any good pictures and they remain categorized as cryptids comes down to, most likely, a few factors; the ability to write off any found dead as humans disfigured by the elements or other humans, the fact if you do see one, you likely won't be alive long enough to take a photo or care to, and the relative rarity. They're not an easy creature to make, and even more rare to occur without someone meaning to.

“Regardless, I've called the local PD and confirmed no bodies or strange men have been found. This Wendigo was blind, but it isn't a necessary trait. That and it worked integrally with the maze… I gotta say, Sherlock, it's not unlikely your _friend_ who put me up overseas was responsible for both. Who the hell is he?”

Busy mulling over the mess of connections being drawn in his mind, Sherlock gave a half mumbled answer, “It can't be just him, he's Sight-less. Was his gunman that accomplished a caster? If so, why would he have been involved in the Great Game, where those skills had little to no use…” Sherlock almost dropped the receiver as a realization hit him… if Moran _had_ been one of the men who took John to the pool that night, he would surely had found then John was a Shifter.

So very long ago.

So very long before Sherlock knew.

That thought turned quickly from shock to anger and frustration.

“Sherlock?”

He didn't speak.

He could hear her begin to tap her foot quickly, the muted slapping behind her as she put down the book. “You're upset. Why?”

His eyebrow twitched. He'd forgotten, Bluebell was smart. And she was beginning to employ his trademark deductive skills the longer they knew one another. He considered brushing her off, but she was much more annoying if he did. “Read John’s blog.” Was all he felt like giving her. If she was as clever as she seemed to think, she had enough to put it together.

“Right, well…” her foot slowed but continued tapping, “anyway. No, I don't think Moran has the skills to use a ritual this complicated. I also think he may have been the person who tried to use the circle in London. His sort aren't well liked by Neighbors. Especially they don't like guns, and a lot of fae attribute any sort of gun with the old rifles, which used iron bullets. So double whammy. If he couldn't gain cooperation from city fae, which are more inclined to at least tolerate guns or other metals they traditionally hate… plus I'm fairly certain he also has no familiar. I was around him a lot when I was there. No, I think there's quite a stack of evidence against those two alone setting up that trap. I don't know of anyone who could. But remember I'm withdrawn from the community and have been for quite some time.”

Sherlock took it all in, filing it and making connections as he went without missing any details. This was his element, and he was relieved to be back in it.

When had working with Bluebell become easier than working with John?

“That's all I have so far but I'll keep looking. Seems your friend at the Yard actually found a copy of that book I recommended for him, it could be very helpful. Is it safe to reach out to him?”

“Hm.” Sherlock thinned his lips. “He has been known to report to my brother. I have been keeping your residence to myself, so perhaps not. He would keep his word if it were given, for secrecy, unless he felt it posed danger to. An intermediary would be best. Stamford, I believe, asked to be introduced to you. He's more reliable than Lestrade. Perhaps explain to Mrs Hudson what you need and get him to make the request.”

“Stamford… ok, Mike? Pub Mike? Yeah… ok yeah, I'll do that then.” She found no reason to tell him she’d already been discovered. Not with so much else going on. He was already working on at least two full cases at once.

“Leave a message here when you find more and I will call you.” Sherlock hung up, deep in his own mind, and started off towards the chem lab.

 

Meanwhile, Bluebell was giving the red circle of disconnection on Mrs H’s mobile half a glare, and half a smirk.

Shaking her head, she handed it back to the older woman. “Thanks. I need another favor, if you’d be so kind.”

Taking the mobile, Mrs Hudson smiled. “Of course, dear.” She huffed at the thin rectangle. “Never could figure how to use the thing. I prefer my landline and my laptop. It was a gift from the boys, you know. I kept having to kip over to Mrs Turner’s flat to use hers.”

“You see a lot of them no one else does, I expect. Your boys, I mean.”

The landlady only sighed fondly in way of a reply.

“Anyhow… I was hoping you’d have the direct number of that DI?”

Looking thoughtful, she scratched her chin. “I should, ‘round here somewhere. I’ll take a peek for it and see if I can’t bring it down with some afternoon tea.” And Mrs H turned away with a smile.

“Hey.”

With a pleasant neutrality, she turned back.

Seeming to lose her nerve a bit, Bluebell ducked her head a touch. “Um. I wanted to say thanks. For everything. You’ve been taking care of me and I’m just some stranger, really.”

With a playful scoff, the laugh lines lighting up on her face, Mrs Hudson brushed it off. “Pish tosh, ‘some stranger’, you came out of the ether to help us get John back. You know how I think of him and Sherlock; they’re family. No manner of tea and biscuits and lending a phone could measure the debt I owe you for taking care of them. And besides that, dear… you take the edge off. While they’re gallivanting outside the country or just inside it but far from reach, it keeps my head above water having you around. _And_ this old basement suite has never had more character. Though you should take care, after that infernal business with the trainers.”

After the warm glow from her words, Bluebell cocked her head to the side. “Careful?”

“Well. Read John’s blog.”

“Yeah. I’ve been advised to that that more than once just today. Could I borrow your laptop?”

“Of course, of course. Rest a bit. I’ll be back for tea.”

Nodding and keeping the blush down as well as she could, Bluebell turned back to her book with a sigh both light and uneasy.

\---

After the final confirmations achieved via the chemistry department of SU, Sherlock tapped the ‘print’ command and sat back. He was elated, the satisfaction of his solve filling him up. He mildly wondered how well John could tap it in his condition, but it was a passing thought that he abandoned once the paper slid free of machinery.

Snatching it up, Sherlock grabbed his coat and made off to meet Lestrade. The DI had taken up residence in the campus coffee house, knowing he’d never predict how long Sherlock would be. And with John out sick (if Sherlock wasn’t lying about that too) he couldn’t even depend upon a courtesy text in the event he left the building alone.

But there was the excitable sod, waving for him to follow without stopping on his way to the parking lot.

Lestrade left a fiver on the table and gathered his jacket with a sigh.

Tapping on his mobile in the passenger seat, feet curled up with him on the seat (somehow) was where Sherlock was found. “I need to borrow a satellite phone. I can’t do these cases out here like this and I don’t know where John put the one we bought for overseas.”

Lestrade didn’t bother arguing that they had service here, he simply got back out of the car and dug in the trunk, in his gear, until he found the requested item.

“Thought you’d solved this.” He asked, voice as haggard as the bags beneath his eyes. He put the phone on the dash in front of Sherlock and buckled in.

“Hm. Of course. We’ll need animal control.”

“You’re not suggesting an animal flogged McPherson and his dog to death.”

Sherlock looked up, frowning at the DI before pocketing his mobile and taking up the satphone. “Don’t be daft. I suppose we could also call an aquarium honestly.” Sherlock huffed, half present. “I don’t need the phone for this case, I need it for another I’m working. I need to be reachable in case new information comes to light.”

“This about the other consultant, Miss… LeCoup, I think? Still working on the cultist case?”

“No, and no.” Sherlock huffed. He looked up. “Why are you not driving.”

“To where? You’ve not told me anything.”

“Back to the police, to solve the case.” Sherlock replied dryly.

“Right well. You need to realize not everything is as immediately obvious to everyone as it is to you.” He started the car, mumbling under his breath. “If John gets back yesterday, it wouldn’t be soon enough…”

Sherlock frowned but ignored him, turning back to the satphone. In his pocket was his evidence; the results of his toxicology, and an encyclopedia page about _Cyanea capillata_. The Lion’s Mane jellyfish.

\---

Turns out reading John’s blog, though it took longer than she would have thought (she kept stopping to fact-check and reference), was the last puzzle piece Bluebell needed.

As she sat back to consider everything, including the sudden drop off from posting after he was taken (without any updates after his return), something nagged at the back of her mind. Something deeper than the revelation it granted about both their foe and John’s murky past (subtext is so important, you know?).

She bit lightly down on her thumb as she tried to coax the inkling into the light of realization. Thinking perhaps of a jump-start, she picked the tome she’d been referencing and flipped through it. Her Runic wasn’t great, and it took some time on each flip to translate enough to decide if she was in the correct area of reference for her needs.

Turned out Lestrade was out in the country with Sherlock. ‘ _Needs a partner, seeing as John isn’t…’_

She cut off her own thought, her mouth going dry. Her hands shot forth, reaching for Mrs Hudson’s mobile.

\---

“My point…” Bluebell’s voice crackled through the satellite phone as Sherlock felt the crunch of gravel under his shoes. He opened the gate to their beach house. The sun was cresting beautifully in the light of his return from the morgue, giving his speech, sending Lestrade off to London Aquarium. “... is that John isn’t used to being Shifted this long. He doesn’t know how to keep himself safe and grounded while he’s stuck this way.”

“He was fine at Baker Street.” Sherlock said dismissively, not paying heed to the frantic nature of Bluebell’s voice. He walked casually up the path, concerned about John only as far as not being able to hear him articulate praise as Sherlock told him about closing the case.

“Yeah. Baker Street. In the middle of a busy city. Now he’s out in the country, in his Shift’s element. Not to mention you were always with him, or if not Mrs Hudson was. That’s extremely grounding, it keeps us in a human state of mind. Now he’s alone for days, in a remote location.”

“You’re underestimating him, he’s a reliable man. Being in a different body for a while isn’t going to make him primitive.” Sherlock let himself into the front and shed his coat, hanging it and his scarf with a sniff of derision. He might have to hang up, this was a pointless conversation.

“For _fucks sake_ Sherlock! Listen to me! You have no clue what you’re talking about _at all_. I’ve been stuck as a Shift, I’ve seen others stuck. He’s in real danger of wandering and losing track of who he is! And you, mr genius, are no closer to breaking the curse. You can’t leave him alone like this, you have to talk to him about how to… are you listening?”

He was and he wasn’t, because as he meandered further into the estate he saw the back door swinging in the wind. He’d left the screen closed and latched, to let in the sweet air. His eyes were flicking over it as his heart rate increased. The small scratches around the latch. If John wanted to go outside, he would have jumped up… but he’d have lifted the latch with his nose, not scamper around on it with his feet.

Not hopeful, as he’d have noticed before, he scanned the room for evidence of a threat, something John would be frantic to get away from… but the rooms were just as he’d left them, albeit a little furrier.

“Sherlock!”

Blinking, he frowned deeply and pushed out the door to look around. “Yes, I am listening.” Paw prints running into the thyme, past the beehives. Towards the woods. “John!”

After a short silence; Sherlock listening, Bluebell processing, she spoke. “You already lost him, didn’t you.”

“Call Lestrade back here.” Is all Sherlock said before hanging up, shoving the phone in his trousers pocket, and jogging out to follow the trail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the first to admit this chapter is not my best, and likely need to be rewritten. I'm shaky, coming back into the story after so much time struggling with other things. But I figured I'd rather push through and conclude this story properly. One chapter left to go! It's started but I'm still having issues. Wish me luck, and I hope you enjoy.


	24. If It Weren't for Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has wandered while Sherlock was on a case. Lestrade and Bluebell try to help find him, whilst still trying to find a way to break the curse keeping him as the warrah.

Light, shadow, blinding, dim… John… his name _was_ John, right? John’s pupils enlarged and retracted erratically. He could not adapt his vision enough for it to be helpful. He was crawling, body heavy, an innate feeling of _wrong_ embedded deep in his gullet as he pushed his body forward, tried to push it _out_. Out of what? Out of himself. Out of… who was John? Oh. I am. Right. John.

 _‘Where is this…’_ he felt more than thought. _‘I was following… smell… what smell… oh yes, that one! There! Trail older. Sun ups ago. There’s a word. Days. Days ago... ‘_ Remembering words made his skull pound, but he knew he wanted them. Words. He opened his maw ‘ _jaw is too long, feels wrong’_ and tried to say ‘days’. The warbled howling that he produced instead made him jolt, and then there were steps _thump thump thump. ‘He is coming. Who?_ Him. _’_

Lolling out his tongue and panting with the effort, with relief, because _he_ could fix the words, and his jaw, and his gullet, and something John felt he needed called ‘thumbs’...

As he gazed up, his pupils retracted to keep out the light and made him blink at the figure, shadow, before him. Not _him_. Too bulky.

Pain.

Shouting.

Something grabbed into his pelt at the base of his skull and _pulled_. Made him yelp in confusion and fear as he was hoisted up, fast, all in one movement.

Air, no ground.

Hard, loud… sharp.

_Pain._

_‘Run. Run. Run.’_

It was the only word he always had. Just run. Even limping, shedding warmth and blood behind him, around him. Just run.

\---

Half dropping, half throwing down the file of papers and pictures on his temporary desk, Lestrade let out a hefty sigh as he pushed his face down hard into his hands. He stayed like that a moment, adding a groan for good measure.

John had been missing a week already when he’d crawled his way, movements odd on the security cam, into Murdoch’s kitchen. He could hardly blame the man for his reaction to a very off wolf crawling around in his house, though throwing it through the glass bay window would not have been his personal solution.

And now he had to go tell Sherlock.

And keep Sherlock from killing someone. Maybe him.

“Well…” The DI groaned again as he pushed himself up and downed the last of his lukewarm coffee. “Better to rip it off sooner than later.” He grabbed his coat and made his way out, through the dawn light in the village, and down towards Sherlock’s villa.

\---

_One week previous_

Impatient was the mother of all understatements when it came to Sherlock’s current state, legs pulled to his chest in the corner of the beach house sofa, a dark judgemental expression splattered across his face like a freaking Jackson Pollock. He had wasted an hour trying to explain the situation to Lestrade (he needed the DI’s help, unfortunately) already when Bluebell had finally arrived despite getting out of London an hour ahead of Lestrade.

Her countenance wasn’t much better than Sherlock’s, though she was better reserved as she hung her fleece on the stand by the door and came into the living room basically to thunderclouds and lightning judging by the men already there.

“Miss LeCoup?” Lestrade balked, looking from her tiny figure with it’s crossed arms and tapping foot to the lump of detective on the sofa. “You pointedly said this was _not_ involving her.”

“Oh, I _lied_ to you. Never done _that_ before.” Sherlock announced, giving off venomous sarcasm with a huff.

“Boys.” Bluebell spoke low, her warning explicit. Lestrade was once again surprised by her presence. “Enough.” Her gaze drifted from a disapproving glare at Sherlock, who she’d bother berating later, to the DI. “Proof, I assume? Yeah. Not an issue. I’ve had a long bloody day already and I feel like I'm made of damp chalk and honestly I don’t care how we move this along, so long as we do. The longer John stays out there, the harder it’ll be to get him back to himself. If he _wants_ to come back to himself, not all do.” She was already stripping off her shoes and socks as she spoke, getting an incredulous dropped jaw from the DI.

“What-”

“Hush.” She cut him off, unabashedly removing everything but her loose sweater-dress. Lestrade looked from her to Sherlock, absolutely gone on finding reason as she dropped her pants next to her socks. “I’m not doing it more than once, so watch me properly.” Bluebell warned, her tone bitter and disapproving.

Sherlock sat up properly, curiosity pulling him to obey her. Watching a Shift… he wanted to tape it and study it properly, but even he knew better than to ask.

Lestrade watched incredulously, huffing and crossing his arms at this ridiculous farce… and then the small woman began to shrink, condense… Fur sprouted, ears moved, nails shifted and brightened… until she was just a lump under the light grey weave. She wriggled out and shook, scratching her ear with her back leg.

Lestrade closed his gaping jaw, not convinced after the initial shock wore off. Sherlock noticed and scoffed.

“Ask her to do something, then. It’s not a normal rabbit.” He goaded, words sharp as the impatience sunk back in.

“It’s an illusion.” Lestrade bristled. The rabbit glared at him. "And not an original one, even. Stage magicians pull this one as a matter of tradition." 

“You should bite him.” Sherlock suggested, reverting back into a ball with a humph.

The rabbit rolled her eyes and blinked at the DI.

“You told me John was missing. Even you should have enough sense not to make a joke of that.” Lestrade deepened his frown as Sherlock sat up and forward, looking murderous but retraining himself.

“Just. Ask.” He hissed, nodding at the rabbit.

“You… fine.” Lestrade ran a hand over his face as he looked down, trying to think of something there was no way a rabbit could do. He scratched his chin and considered her. “Alright then…”

 

“So…” Lestrade balked after his series of questioning demands, sinking down on the sofa beside Sherlock with a hand pressed to his forehead. “John is a…”

“Yes!” Bluebell and Sherlock replied in tandem, the former having shedded and gotten her clothing back on.

“And he’s…”

“Yes!” They said louder.

“Jesus christ!” Bluebell supplemented, turning away and pushing her hair from her face as she began to pace. “If we’ve wasted enough time now!”

“I bloody well think so…” Sherlock grumbled, huffing a breath through his nostrils.

“Not helpful.” Bluebell huffed, flicking him in the forehead. She got an incredulous, offended look in return and just rolled her eyes before sitting on the lounger across from the men. “Listen properly, because this is information _essential_ to helping John.” She steepled her fingers, looking deadly serious at each of them before nodding and taking a deep breath. “Here’s what you need to know…”

\---

“No!” Sherlock shouted, tossing a handful of papers away from himself. “No no no!” He frantically ruffled his fingers in his curls, frustrated beyond his capacity. “It makes _no sense_.” He pushed a page in Bluebell’s sardonic face, and she calmly raised a hand to push his down by the wrist and look at him.

“You’re not looking at it properly.”

“I’ve looked at it every possible way.” Sherlock hissed in her face, waving the page up and down and crumpling it a bit in his grip.

She sighed and shook her head, taking it with little resistance and smoothing it out. It was the circle, the Musgrave circle. As Lestrade did surveillance and gathered information and maps and spoke to local hunters, they worked on solving the persistent issue of John’s forced Shift. “Look, you’ve lived your entire life with certain perceptions and paradigms. I understand it’s hard to question something you’ve relied upon so heavily, things that work for you everywhere else.” She looked at the circle carefully, pondering how she could refocus the genius of her counterpart in a constructive direction. She knew the spell was too advanced for her, but if she could facilitate his brain properly, Sherlock would probably be able to solve it.

“Oh!”

The detective looked over, unhopeful and annoyed, from where he had dropped into a cross-legged position over his scattered papers.

Bluebell grinned at him; the unfocused eyes on the paper had reminded her of a certain maths problem from high school. Though she knew Sherlock had already attempted to look at magic from a mathematical perspective, it might not be the right subject. “The thing about magic, though it’s steeped in tradition, emotion and belief; the Old Ones and the powers therein… at the core of everything in the universe is physics. Magic is used to bend or break the laws of physics, but it was built around tenets of psychology. Each part of the visceral avenue of magic, like casting Runes and circles, is comparable to the Rorschach test. It’s only a reliable tool if certain conditions are met; proper understanding by a competent mage or other facilitator, a set of methodical assessments of the knowledge utilized, and the application of the appropriate population or grouping of Fae. You’re not using the right formula, but this can make sense to you.” She got up and unstacked a pile of books, searching until she'd pulled out half a dozen or so texts. Half were in Runic, but the others were in Latin, Gaelic, Norse… “I can’t translate everything here…” She mumbled to herself.

Sherlock watched her with interest, his mind turning over what she’d said and what she was doing, seeing if it fit somewhere in his brain.

“It’s not enough to see the illustrations and work it out from there…” She chewed lightly on her thumb.

“Let me see those.” He spoke from behind and above her, much too close, and she jumped.

Turning to glare, she handed him the first book all the same. Though it was more a stack of papers threaded together with twine than a book, and half of it looked blank to him without the Sight.

He’d begun to pick up the patterns of Runic writing enough to get the gist of the grammar and syntax, so he flipped and scanned over it with the newer outlook. He’d been given the inkblot test before, several times, and he could attest they were not administered by people who understood how to use them. These, however…

Patterns began to emerge more clearly, as if a block had been bypassed in his perception. He took the circle of Musgrave’s Ritual and put it down as he sat beside the tiny woman and began to slip sticky notes under passages throughout the pages he scanned. Every now and then, as she began to pick up what he was doing, Bluebell would stop him and point out things on the blank pages.

In that manner, they worked long into the night and early hours of morning, until Bluebell dozed off. Without her, Sherlock could only do half of what he needed, but he pressed on with the pages he could read.

\---

_Days pass..._

“It’s a damn losing battle, Sherlock…” Lestrade exclaimed wearily as he slumped down into the recliner across from the detective, who was laying on the sofa with steepled fingers, arms dotted with nicotine patches. Three was evidently no longer enough. “They don’t care about the fines or citations. Folk out in the boonies rarely do.” He sighed, wiping a hand down his face. “They’re going on a damn crusade now a ‘wild animal’ came right into some bloke’s kitchen.”

Sherlock lay silent, which struck Lestrade as a bit off seeing as his usual response to John in danger, especially lately, was more passionate.

“I think the jellyfish incident is fueling things. An animal killing a man, a local man, so… painfully. Especially somewhere those sorts of deaths are rare.” He sighed again. “Looking for something they can take their feelings out on, since the fish was-”

“Plankton.”

Lestrade wrinkled his brow, wondering if he’d missed something. “What?”

“Plankton. The Lion’s Mane and creatures like it are not fish. They’re plankton.”

The DI made a face, but let it go as he was plenty familiar with such corrections from Sherlock. “Right. Well, since the Lion’s mane isn’t exactly an appealing target, amorphous and safely in London, a dangerous creature they can actively hunt seems appealing. And he’s injured to boot, after his little trip through a pane of fairly solid glass. It does not look good…”

Sherlock was silent a few moments longer, then took a deep breath through his nose and sat up, turning to sit properly and look at the ragged, greying DI. “Human men won’t kill John.” He said in his ‘this is obvious’ tone.

“What makes you so sure?” Lestrade challenged.

“Because the Neighbors like him. There is more to fear from them spiriting him away than any physical threat from mortals like us.”

“Neighbors?”

Getting up stoically, Sherlock ignored the question and crossed to the kitchen. “Tea?”

Lestrade watched him, put off kilter. This was not the man he knew. As each day passed, he became more colorless, more serious. This wasn’t even a case to him anymore. “Yeah…” Lestrade nodded, head thick with worry. “A cuppa sounds good.”

As he took out clean cups (Lestrade had been keeping the place relatively tidy in the deluge of three people working overtime for a week), Sherlock looked out on the wind sweeping through the vegetation. The sun would set soon.

\---

“Well, tell the truth, we had plenty of old legends already about otherworldly wolves, but now with this new one… tales are already forming around it. I must admit, it’s the oddest set of behaviors from an animal I’ve seen personally. And I’ve lived out here all my life. My pa grew up here, his pa.” He took a thoughtful draw of his pint. “Dunno where it wandered here from, but I doubt Fulworth will stop talking of it for generations if this keeps up. Almost seems a shame so many are out for blood…”

Sipping thoughtfully, Sherlock listened with interest and hummed his agreement. He found he genuinely didn’t mind Stackhurst’s company. The man was unassuming, but neither unintelligent nor actually boring. “Old legends, before this creature showed up in your kitchen?” He prompted.

“Oh sure.” Stackhurst offered. “And happily not just the same old drivel that’s gotten popular these days.” Sherlock raised his brow in an obvious manner to show interest. “Well for example, there’s one story about a man, a new husband if I recall correctly, meeting a fairy in the woods and accidentally insulting her. So he ends up a cursed werebeast.” He paused to take a drink, relishing Sherlock’s uncharacteristic interest. “There are a few ways the story goes from there. His young wife is dedicated, her love is strong. One telling goes she wandered the woods for seven days and seven nights, burning sage in her lantern and calling his name. And though the husband is torn with despair at his fate, hiding in shame, when he hears his bride call his name from the well of her love, or from her heart, or… something like that… when she calls his name and he hears it, the curse if broken and he changes back into a man, and they get their happy ending.”

Sherlock nodded, his drink forgotten. “The other version is not so forgiving?” He hummed.

“Ah, no. That’s part of the charm you see. No, the other telling is similar. She searches seven days and nights all the same, but she comes across the fearsome creature in the wood. She balks, as you can imagine, but the beast is letting out a low, sorrowful wail which draws her closer. She’s a bleeding heart, eh? Well once he hears her and turns, she sees his eyes and knows it is him. This time, she breaks the curse by throwing his worn cloak about his shoulders in her pity. So you see it turns out well either way you hear it.” Stackhurst nodded and took another drink. “I was told these sorts of tales as a child, so I’d be cautious in the woods. But my father also wanted to be sure I didn’t give up easily if things seemed insurmountable. There may be less happy versions around here, but I’ve never heard them you see.”

“What about Murdoch?” Sherlock asked slyly.

With a good humoured laugh and a great grin, Stackhurst raised his glass. “Yeah yeah. You’ve deduced I’m sure, he’s still around. We both said some things, but Fitzy was like a son to us. No easy thing, losing kin like that. But no, Ian’s never given me reason to think our town has a dark clouded history.” With a slightly sad, slightly fond sigh, he gave a meaningful nod to Sherlock in lieu of anything more personal or invasive. “I can only hope for the same for you. It might not seem to you we’re grateful, but knowing there wasn’t some perverse soul after Fitzy, no scandal… just a sad, unforeseen accident… well, it’s not the worst way things could have been resolved. And without you, Ian might have been blamed for the whole thing.”

“Hm.” Sherlock sat back and took a long draw of his drink, finishing it. He wasn’t used to people involved with a case, a solved case, around him this long without turning sour fairly quickly. It was somewhat uncomfortable, in the invasive way things were when they were new.

“Well. You’ve listened to me blather long enough, I’d say.” Stackhurst said with a smile and a glance at his watch. He seemed to give Sherlock an out when he began getting uncomfortable. Somehow he knew.

Sherlock didn’t need an out, but he took it. He said nothing further. He simply stood, wrapping his scarf the way he liked it, and nodded before taking off into the dark night.

\---

That night as Sherlock combed the wood with Lestrade’s torch, he continued to roll his mind over and over the stories Stackhurst had shared.

Bluebell the rabbit ran past him, searching in her own way every night after dark, and her words came in beside Stackhursts: _‘These legends and lore, many are written and told by those with subtle Sight. They all hold some element of truth, some real magic.’_

Thinning his lips as the light and his sharp gaze ran over the moss and dirt and leaves, ears pricked against the cacophony of the creatures awake at night and the wind off the waves, he considered the answer might not lie in ancient books or lettering or patterns… the simplest solution… would be in the local lore, or the general lore of were-beasts.

Something nagged beneath the surface of his thoughts, tickling the surface, creating ripples… something important that was already tied to John, something he’d told Sherlock already…

What was it?

And then he was struck with it, enough to stop him walking as a half-thought finished forming properly and John’s voice, the memory deep seeded in Sherlock’s mind, repeated it over and over. Simplicity itself.

_‘She’d tossed my clothes at me… I dunno why, but I shedded… changed back…’_

Just as in Stackhurst’s tale…

Sherlock pulled out the satphone and pushed the number in on muscle memory alone. It was too late, but it wasn’t the first and it wouldn’t be the last time he’d woken his landlady.

“Mrs Hudson. Hush. N- Just listen. My closet, in my room, I need you to fetch and overnight…” He stopped and listened, somehow frowning and smirking in tandem. “I’d tell you off for snooping if it was ever anything but beneficial…” He mused, hanging up before getting confirmation. He turned and started back to the beach house. There was no sense finding John before he had the Haversack with him.

\---

Even after receiving the iconic, carefully kept coat, Sherlock’s nightly searching through the woods were unfruitful. He started earlier and earlier in the evening and stayed out past sunrise. On the third morning, before dawn, Bluebell stumbled out into his path. She was flushed, clutching her coat closed around her shoulders and catching her breath. The overworking must have been taking it's toll, because her skin looked clammy and was greying. “I think I’ve found him.” She breathed, turning to point off into the thicket. “That way, half a k or so.”

Sherlock didn’t need telling twice, leaping the bush, twigs snapping off in his wake. He clutched the Haversack in one hand, somehow mindful to be careful with it as he rushed onward and navigated the uneven terrain.

Before he hit the last stretch, he saw the signs… John wasn’t a true wolf, and he hadn’t developed the skills of one either. He wasn’t hard to track once on the trail. Sherlock slowed significantly, catching his breath and quieting his traverse of the undergrowth. He didn’t want to risk a chase. He was certain he was no match, even if John was weak.

He needn’t have worried, as he pushed carefully past a tree into a tiny clearing and laid eyes, finally, finally, on his great, sad beast.

John didn’t even raise his head, letting out a low, whistling whine as his large, somewhat dullened eyes landed on the interloper.

“John…” Sherlock whispered. “John Hamish Watson.” He said, taking care he’d be heard.

Light flickered behind the deep brown eyes as the wolf raised his head. He was wary, but not of Sherlock, as he slowly stood and stepped forward to meet. That scent. He’d been looking for that scent, the scent that bathed his hiding place now. God, the relief.

“John. Hamish. Watson.” Sherlock repeated, resolute, as he knelt to cradle the great furry head in his chest, breathing out a silent sob and taking in the musty, dirty animal smell. Dried blood from the glass. Mud. The lingering waft of rotting wood, even. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

 

_‘I am John. I am John.’_

Something had released, like a breath one doesn’t realize they’re holding.

Then there was a soft fluttering of fabric and a negligible weight on his back and shoulders. Everything sank down, pulled in, at that weight and other than that weight, he was exposed.

He gasped in the suddenly too-cold air, his whole body shaking. He looked upon his fingers, long and pink, as if they were strange to him. “S-Sherlock…” he croaked, touching his throat at the odd sensation of speaking. He lifted his chin, he seemed to need to crane further than normal to look at the vision of his friend in the fading dark. As Sherlock murmured reassurances and gratitude, John looked again at his hands. Sherlock wrapped John’s coat more tightly around him and took his hands from his awe-struck gaze to slip warm leather gloves onto them with incredible care. The type of care he took with samples in the lab during a particularly difficult case. “It's like waking from a very long, drug addled dream.” John wheezed, quietly but as clearly as he could manage.

“Yes, John. You're awake now.” Sherlock agreed. The sleepless nights were catching up with the both of them now. Sherlock brushed off his fatigue as he’d done countless times before. He found it more difficult than those times, however… the seeping relief that coursed through him now that John was here, in control of himself again, safe…

“Sherlock… I’m cold…” It was obvious, John’s teeth were rattling and his body had recurrent tremors.

“Obvious.” Sherlock nearly whispered, pulling his scarf loose over his head and wrapping it snugly around the warrah-shift’s neck.

“Git.” John smiled wearily, eyelids heavy. “Can we go now.” It wasn’t a question, rasped in the lightest of tones that still allowed his Captain’s luster to shine.

Sherlock replied only with a soft curl of his lips. Then, since he hadn’t the thought to grab anything else, he swept off his long coat and wrapped it over John’s Haversack. He didn’t bother to put John’s arms through, rather using them to close the front without having to do up buttons.

Then Sherlock scooped John up, holding his small, dense form close to himself. He stood and turned. Weary as he was, there was nothing more satisfying he could recall than the crunch of leaves under his shoes and the scent of earth, fur, and _John_ as he marched carefully back towards the light of their cabin.

\---

Before he’d realized the situational difference, John slid into Sherlock’s bed to wait for him. The first thing to strike his languid mind was how cold he was, though that was quickly put to rest as he dragged the folded comforter from the foot of the bed up to his shoulder and wiggled down so his weight made a bit of a crevice in the mattress for him.

It had been a muddled week, most of which he’d been sleeping off what Bluebell called a ‘Shift hangover’. Sherlock hadn’t moved him after getting him to the bed in the beach house, just made sure he ate and drank, and didn’t go anywhere.

The first day back at Baker Street was mostly tea and chatting with Mrs Hudson and Bluebell in the basement suite. Sherlock was never far, bringing a few things down with him to do as the others prattled on about things he didn’t have patience for. It was comfortable and pleasant, and barely an hour past sundown found John bidding them goodnight. He’d climbed, mind nearly snoozing already, to their flat and into their bed.

It wasn’t until spindly, cool hands pressed gently down and against the bare, scarred skin on his back that John was hit with the ice water of realization; he, a man, was in Sherlock’s bed. With Sherlock.

As his heart sped up, he had foggy remembrances of Sherlock sleeping against him at the beach house, just as he had when John was shifted, just as he was now. He couldn’t concentrate enough to recall properly as a shiver ran up his spine under the careful touches of his detective’s fingers.

He had a moment of debate around whether to pretend not to notice, to be asleep, or to confront Sherlock about how inappropriate this was as humans.

“Sherlock.” He nearly tripped over it as the word whispered out of his mouth.

“You’re agitated.” The deep rippling voice replied with a fond curiosity.

“No shit, Sherlock…” John huffed, though he didn’t move.

“I can’t see well enough to collect the data I require to determine why.” The lazy, haughty cadence, much like that of a cat, came back. His fingers didn’t stop, either, though they never wandered below his lower spine or around his front. They simply brushed, sinking from just tips to full palm and back, up down and around on flesh. They didn’t seem to differentiate between scar tissue and unbroken skin, never lingering.

John huffed softly, trying to be perturbed and excusing it as fatigue’s fault when he wasn’t. “Why?” He replied finally. “You’re… in bed.”

“Astute.”

“Shut it. You know what I mean.”

“I am. In _my_ bed. Problem?”

Thinning his lips as he realized his mistake, John paused to think. It was obvious, the problem, wasn’t it? Not to Sherlock bloody Holmes. “I’m… just used to coming in here instead of upstairs.” He defended quietly, shifting a bit. He felt Sherlock’s hands pause in reply to the movement.

“You are free to do so now you’ve realized.” Sherlock spoke patiently, not teasing or goading as John would have suspected.

And for some reason he didn’t care to ponder, John didn’t feel compelled to leave. “You _do_ understand though… the difference.”

“Yes. You’re much smaller and more naked, despite your sleeping trousers. Thus the need to share the covers.” Sherlock hummed, still not moving his fingers.

“That’s not…” John, frustrated finally, sat up and back against the headboard. He clicked on the bedside lamp (mostly for Sherlock’s benefit, he had fairly good low light vision) and frowned down at the contrast of pearl sheets to a mop of black curls. Sherlock didn’t move other than to push up on one elbow. Still facing inwards on his side, his stunning caribbean green eyes always ethereal in the relative darkness. John thinned his lips as he closed his mouth, having forgotten his train of thought.

Sherlock didn’t give him a lead or an out, staring up calm and coy in silence. Though his eyes did not wander off John’s face, the army doctor was overtly aware of his bare chest, the chill of the room (did Sherlock prefer it cooler or was that unchanged from when John’s thick fur called for it?), the feathery dusting of barely noticeable hair there…

John cleared his throat, feeling hot in the face. He opened his mouth to try again. “I don’t think I can sleep… like this.”

Sherlock cocked his head a bit, expression otherwise unchanged. “Despite appearances, John…” the doctor swallowed… “I am not a clairvoyant. Be specific.” He finished, eyes flashing with something daring.

“Sp-” John swallowed again, eye burning with the need to look away but somehow unable to. He blinked instead, and just that grounded him enough to frown and lower his brow. “I’m not playing games with you.” He crossed his legs beneath him, sitting up straight and facing Sherlock more fully. “And I’m not Shifting either.”

A low, growling laugh rumbled from Sherlock, enough that John could barely feel the vibrations through the mattress. “If there were ever any doubt you are not a clairvoyant either…”

John couldn’t help but smirk, relaxing his shoulders a bit. “Git.”

With a fond huff, Sherlock blinked long, relaxedly. “I am absolutely knackered. I’m going to sleep. Do whatever you want.” Then with a sly smile, Sherlock stretched his arms, reminding John how thin and lanky he was. He curled up a bit on his pillow and closed his eyes. “Though I’d like the lamp off.”

If someone had taken a picture of John just then, he would be extremely irked, for the fondness lighting up behind his face was damning.

He clicked off the lamp as he was bid with a scoff, then lowered himself carefully a foot or so away from his flatmate, facing out.

This time when cool gentle fingers found his skin, just delicately enough he couldn’t be certain they were there, John didn’t find them anything but comfortable.

\---

Even after so much stress and action, John was a bit surprised Sherlock was so content to just sit on the sofa beside him and watch crap telly. He rested his head back and decided to just enjoy it.

“John.” The low soothing vibration tickled John’s eardrums pleasantly and he hummed a reply. “Would you look at me a minute?”

Guard down, relaxed, John sat up and looked over at his detective on the other side of the couch. Sherlock tucked his leg in so he was facing John completely, eyes running over his face discerningly. “Yeah?”

After a minute or so of careful scrutiny, when the show was coming back, Sherlock leaned forward a foot or so, still not close to breaking the personal space boundary.

“John. Can I kiss you?”

John’s immediate reaction was to back up quickly, to laugh because it was obviously a joke, or to accuse some sort of experiment as the reasoning and refuse.

But he didn’t do any of those things. He couldn’t. Because as he sat there, his mouth drying, and looked carefully at the expression on his detective’s face… this was no joke, no experiment. This was real. And in the face of that reality, John had no fallback.

His eyes flicked from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips and back.

“Yeah.” John swallowed, he’d tried to keep his voice steady, but it cracked even on that one syllable.

Blatant, unillusive vulnerability. That’s what they needed to get to this point. There was no puzzlement as to why it had taken either of them this long to get there.

It was slow, very careful. John stayed where he was, not really believing the reality of things even now, his mind turning over and over.

Sherlock shuffled in and leaned forward, and with the caution of inexperience, let his lips fall barely open and push into John’s. Instinct took John’s movements to press back, to push his lips together in the meeting of a kiss. And the small puckering noise made when they pulled back just slightly was everything in the silence of the room, not silence due to an absence of noise; the silence of nothing else in that background cacophony having significance.

It was not at all what had been told, in media and through others. There was no slowing down of time, no passion overcoming them like a tidal wave. It was simple, and safe, and real.

Sherlock pressed in once more, then slowly sat back to look for signs he really didn’t think he’d see, though a moment before his heart thumped with the anxiety of searching for them. Hesitance, rejection, pity, regret. None graced the lined, war-tested face before him.

“May I touch your face?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Yeah, Sherlock. Of course.” John breathed, the tickling of amusement on his words. No one, not a soul in his life, had been this careful with him. Especially not in a time like this. He actually hadn’t considered this sort of care at all before.

John closed his eyes to the sensation of those long, careful, calloused fingers on his cheek as they cupped his jaw. Everything was new, not just to Sherlock.

God it was… safe. Under everything, all those walls to protect himself… Sherlock hadn’t knocked them down or gone through them, he’d asked honestly for permission to enter. This was the last bit, he’d been himself as long as he’d known Sherlock, at least in Baker Street when it was just them. But not quite all himself, not open. And now…

John let out a puff of air with humor hanging off it, and Sherlock stopped moving his hand. John opened his eyes, his face relaxed. “It seems ridiculous…” He started. But he wasn’t really sure how to express what he was feeling.

“Your pupils dilated. When you look at me.”

John’s smile widened. “You’re serious. That’s what led you here. Since when?”

“I only started tracking it recently. I have 48 points of data from the last two days alone. I have 537 from the last two weeks. The science was sound.”

John leaned in and kissed him, a little harder so that in his awkward approach, their teeth hit together. He pulled back with a snicker. “And since when have you…”

Sherlock blinked, feeling more exposed than he already was at this moment. His hand on John’s cheek flicked a finger over his skin. “Longer than when I first took notice. Some time.”

“Some time…” John repeated, fluttery and light. He closed his eyes and leaned his head forward and down so their foreheads met. He let out a long-held sigh from the depths of his core. “Some time,” came with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA! I put 'first kiss' in the tags and it was the absolute last thing to happen I AM NOT SORRY!
> 
>  
> 
> Please still go read Part Two as it comes up. Should be posting chapter one within a day or two.


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